by Damien Lewis
As the brothers took up brother Ali’s war cry, their cries of Allahu Akhbar echoed thunderously around the underground basement, their clenched fists punching the air in time with the chanting.
13
DAWN AWAKENING
‘DID YOU HEAR, mate? Report’s just come in’ Tom said to Mat, early the next morning, as he was pulling on his boots in preparation for a second day’s action at the fort. ‘Half a dozen of the fuckers broke out overnight and busted into some houses in a nearby village. They just slaughtered people left, right and centre – men, women, children, the lot. The alarm was raised in the village, every man grabbed a gun and went on the hunt, tracked the fuckers down and killed ’em all. Apparently, they’ve hung the bodies from the trees at the edge of the village.’
‘Nice,’ Mat replied.
‘Pour encourager les autres,’ Jamie added.
‘What?’ said Tom.
‘French, mate,’ Jamie said. ‘Means “to encourage the others”. Like a warning not to try the same trick again.’
‘Yeah, I guess,’ said Tom, trying to stifle a yawn.
At 5.10 a.m. the SBS and 5th SOF soldiers left Boxer Base and headed out of Mazar city to the fort. On arrival they would filter into their positions without being detected. Once inside the fort they would go quiet on the mission, which meant no talking or radio communications unless absolutely necessary. And then they would call in the US air strikes as an early-morning surprise for the enemy. Some twenty minutes later they reached Qala-i-Janghi, just as the pre-dawn light had started to paint the skies to the east of them a brilliant blue red. The Land-Rovers and Humvees pulled to a halt several hundred yards from the fort’s walls and out of range of the enemy weaponry. Major Martin’s team set off on foot in the semi-darkness heading for the western tower, while Captain Lancer’s men headed for the eastern entranceway tower.
As the Captain’s team approached their position, they were spotted by a group of Northern Alliance soldiers who were crouching around their fire to keep warm. The Afghans started waving their arms around and gesturing wildly. It turned out that the enemy mortar operator who had caused so much trouble the previous day was still in operation, and he had his weapon zeroed in on the eastern entranceway tower. So Captain Lancer opted to relocate his men to the north-eastern tower – the position where they had seen out the last of the previous day’s fighting. The men skirted around the outside of the fort giving a wide berth to the minefields. But as the north-eastern tower hove into view Mat had to do a double take, just to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming.
‘Holy fuck,’ he said, pointing to the top of the squat tower. ‘Will you take a look at that?’
‘How the fuck did they get that up there?’ Jamie said, letting out a long, low whistle.
Perched atop the squat structure and silhouetted against the light of dawn was a massive T-55 Soviet-era battle tank, its main gun pointing ominously towards the southern end of the fort.
‘Now unless I’m going nuts, that wasn’t there yesterday when we left,’ said Mat.
‘Like fuck it was, mate,’ said Jamie, trying to stifle a chuckle.
‘You can just imagine some Northern Alliance bloke trying to explain it all to General Dostum, can’t you? “Just popped out for an early-morning drive in me T-55, I did, and somehow I ended up atop this tower. Dunno how it happened, General Sir, I really don’t.”’
‘Yeah, well, I’d warrant that’s no accident, mate.’ Jamie nodded in the direction of the tank ‘From up there, it must have a direct line of fire right into the fort. That’s been put there for a reason, mate, and I’d wager it’s to mallet any of the enemy left alive in there.’
‘These guys don’t mess around, do they?’ said Mat. ‘Tell you what, mate, I’d like to meet the bloke who drove it up there, though.’
Once the men were up on the roof of the tower, they worked out that the T-55 had been driven up the sloping rampart of the fort’s outer wall. It was certainly some feat of driving. The tank’s crew were already awake, and there were four Afghan soldiers crouching on its hull, huddling to keep warm against the night chill. They were dressed in mixed combats, shamags and sandals, which seemed to be the standard uniform for General Dostum’s troops. As they watched the British soldiers inspecting their tank the Afghan fighters were all smiles. Using hand gestures and doing impersonations of a straining tank engine, they gave a short demonstration of how they had driven the machine up on to the tower.
‘Nice to have some firepower on hand, ain’t it, mate?’ Mat whispered to Jamie, once the Afghans had finished. ‘I mean, who needs the US Air Force when you’ve got General Dostum’s flying tanks?’
‘Yeah, just as long as the walls are strong enough,’ Jamie whispered back.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, that’s no Nissan Micra, is it?’ said Jamie, eyeing the T-55 suspiciously. ‘I mean, what’s a T-55 weigh – several tons, got to be. And then there’s the recoil when it starts firing. Put it another way, when they built this fort d’you think they did so with tanks in mind? Unlikely, mate. More like foot soldiers and cavalry.’
‘Who gives a flying fuck, as long as it can fucking mallet the fuckers,’ growled Ruff. He wasn’t at his best in the mornings.
‘Keep your voice down, Ruff mate,’ hissed Mat.
‘You can have the position nearest it when it starts firing then, mate,’ Jamie added.
Some twenty yards in front of the T-55 tank the US 5th SOF soldiers were already setting up a FAC position overlooking the fort. Unfortunately, it was difficult to get a direct line of sight from the tower on to the enemy positions in the southern end of the fort. But with H-hour for the air strikes set at 0601 hours and fast approaching, they’d have to make do. In any case, Major Martin, Tom and Sam would soon be taking up their positions on the opposite side of the fort, on the western tower. From there they could provide eyes on the target and laser coordinates, while the FAC team concentrated on liaising with the US pilots and talking them down on to target.
By 5.45 a.m., Jamie and Ruff were manning the GPMGs at the tower battlements and covering the gateway in the central wall, while Mat was lending a hand with the 5th SOF as they set up the comms equipment. It was still fairly dark within the fort and deathly quiet, and there hadn’t been any sign yet that the enemy had spotted them. Once the US FAC team had got their comms up and running they made contact with the lead pilot. In sixteen minutes the aircraft would be over the fort – and all being well the air strikes would tear into the enemy positions.
Mat kept his eyes glued to the southern end of the fort, searching for enemy movement. As he did so, he started counting down the minutes to the air strikes. He could just imagine the scene inside the cockpit of the lead US warplane as it streaked across the dawn skies inbound towards the fort. In addition to flying the F-18 Hornet fighter-attack aircraft, the pilot would be talking to the FAC team on the ground. He’d be scribbling their instructions on to a pad strapped to his leg, and then punching the target coordinates into his on-board computer system so that the plane could home in on the enemy positions to be hit. And he’d also be taking note of the friendly coordinates, so that he could avoid any potential confusion over where the nearest US and British forces were positioned. This is known as ‘deconfliction’ in military speak. There was no doubt about it in Mat’s mind, the pilot had one hell of a lot to do as he prepared for that bombing run.
Over on the opposite side of the fort Sam and Tom were just settling into their positions on the western tower. As they nuzzled up against the battlements they had an unobstructed view into the southern end of the fort. Not a soul appeared to be moving down there, although they had little doubt that some of the enemy would be awake, keeping watch from their positions in the basement. Sam and Tom had brought one of the Northern Alliance soldiers with them. The Afghan soldier had been stationed in Qala-i-Janghi before, when General Dostum was last in control of it, so he knew the fort complex like the back of his
hand. He pointed out the two target buildings that they wanted to hit: the pink stable block, below which the majority of the enemy were supposedly sheltering, and the main ammo stores situated on the far side of the fort’s dividing wall.
Sam lased the two targets using their LTD and recorded the coordinates. Then Tom ducked his head down to speak into the PRM he had attached to his shoulder webbing – relaying the target coordinates back to Major Martin. The Major had brought a 5th SOF signals officer with him this morning, to help with the FAC comms, and the two of them were positioned towards the rear of the tower some thirty yards back from Tom and Sam’s positions.
‘Target 1, pink building in middle of southern half of fort,’ Tom whispered into his radio. ‘Coordinates are MGRS Foxtrot Echo 23849678.’
‘MGRS Foxtrot Echo 23849678,’ the Major confirmed back to him.
‘Target 2, row of metal shipping containers – ammo stores, located on southern side of dividing wall of fort,’ Tom continued. ‘Coordinates are MGRS Foxtrot Echo 23849667.’
Again, Major Martin confirmed the coordinates. Once he’d done so, he began calculating the distance the targets were from their own positions. Unfortunately, both targets were in extreme danger-close proximity to the western tower: the pink building was about 250 yards distant, while the ammo store was barely 150 yards. With the first F-18 Hornet inbound and some ten minutes away, the Major knew that he needed to put up some target coordinates to the pilots, and fast. But by anyone’s reckoning, these targets were too close for comfort.
Keeping his voice low, the Major spoke into his radio set: ‘Sam, Tom, on me – need a heads-up, guys.’
‘You got any alternative targets?’ the Major whispered to them, once Tom and Sam had crawled over to join him. ‘Those two are extreme danger-close. Like, they’re on top of us.’
‘It’s the stronghold and ammo store, mate,’ Tom whispered back at him. ‘There’s nothin’ else that makes any sense to hit.’
‘Well, we gotta get some good-to-go targets up to the fast air, cos they’re inbound now, buddy.’
‘So give them those goddam targets,’ Sam cut in, impatiently.
‘Listen, buddy, a five-hundred-pounder is danger-close at five hundred yards,’ the Major countered. ‘Those two targets are less ’n half that distance. You tellin’ me you wanna be here when they get hit?’
‘They’re all we’ve got that’s good to go,’ Sam retorted.
‘All right, but they’re too damn close for comfort, that’s for sure,’ the Major replied. ‘You got the friendly coordinates too, right?’
‘Got ’em, mate,’ Tom confirmed.
‘Well, OK. Wait one.’
Turning back to the radio, Major Martin began to relay both the target coordinates and those of their friendly positions back to the 5th SOF team, who would in turn put them up to the US pilots. But once he’d finished doing so, a message came back to him that the lead aircraft had to first deploy a 2,000-pound JDAM munition, before any of its five-hundred-pounders could be activated. Apparently, the avionics of the aircraft meant that the laser-guided bombs couldn’t be dropped until the JDAM had gone down.
‘Jesus! Now they got a goddam JDAM that’s gotta go down first,’ Major Martin snapped, as he came off the radio.
‘Make a big bang,’ Sam commented under his breath. ‘Sure will be one hell of a wake-up call.’
‘Will be when it fries our arses all to toast,’ Tom added. ‘Only joking, mate. Get the fucker in here. JDAMs are GPS-guided, aren’t they? Accurate to ten metres. We’ll be all right.’
‘If I give the green light, that bomb’s on its way and we’re underneath it,’ said the Major, deliberately looking at both Tom and Sam. ‘That’s a two-thousand-pound munition. You guy’s OK with that? I’m just makin’ certain –’
‘Listen, mate, you’re right – we’re too fuckin’ close for comfort,’ Tom replied. ‘But the JDAM’s got to go, ain’t it? And we ain’t got no fuckin’ option other than using the air power, have we? There’s no other way we’re goin’ to take those fuckers out, is there? We’ll just have to be careful as fuck with the targeting and get our fuckin’ heads down as the big one goes in.’
‘JDAMs at dawn,’ said Sam, with a grin.
‘I love the smell of JDAMs in the mornin’,’ Tom added.
Major Martin nodded at each of them in turn, making doubly certain that they were happy for the air strike to go in, and then grasped his radio.
‘This is Major Michael E. Martin, of the US 5th SOF,’ he announced, ‘and I’m givin’ permission to go in and hit those targets, but my forces are danger-close, I repeat, extreme danger-close to those coordinates …’
Sam and Tom left the Major to liaise with the FAC team and crawled back to their positions overlooking the southern half of the fort. As soon as that first munition hit, they wanted to be up at the battlements and laying down some fire on to the enemy. They kept their eyes glued to the enemy positions. It was ominously quiet down there. The Northern Alliance had kept the enemy bottled up in the fort all night long, so they had to be in there somewhere. And once those air strikes went in, all hell was going to break loose. The F-18 aircraft now had several target coordinates programmed into their on-board computerised attack systems. Once that JDAM hit they would be coming in to strike a series of pre-planned targets in quick succession.
Bang on H-hour, Tom and Sam detected the faint whirr of a munition coming in from behind them at a great distance. It was barely audible in the still, early-morning air. Within seconds the whirr had increased to a whine and then to a deafening scream. Tom and Sam threw themselves flat behind the battlements just as an almighty explosion rocked the fort. They clasped their hands over their heads as the angry blast wave rolled over them, sucking up the air and creating a momentary vacuum. But both men had expected a far greater impact, considering the target was at such close range.
A split second after the JDAM hit, Tom and Sam jumped up from behind the battlements and opened fire with their Diemacos on the enemy positions. But almost immediately, they were confronted by a fierce barrage of return fire. The enemy had started counter-attacking from the windows of the stable-block building. The two special forces soldiers searched the ground in front of them for the plume of dust and debris from the JDAM strike. But suddenly they realised with a shock that there was no sign of any air strike on either of the pre-designated targets.
What the fuck is going on? both of them were thinking. Where the hell is that air strike?
Ducking back behind the parapet, Tom and Sam looked at each other in bewilderment. As they did so, their PRMs just started going haywire. For a moment they couldn’t make any sense of what they were hearing on the radio net – it sounded like a confusion of shouting mixed in with a horrible yelling and screaming. But then there was the unmistakable sound of English voices mixed in with the cacophony of crying and panicked Afghan voices.
‘Fuck! Fuck! We’ve been hit!’
‘Holy fuck! Get a fuckin’ medic!’
‘That’s Mat!’ Tom yelled, above the uproar on the radio. ‘That’s Mat!’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Sam, the colour draining from his face. ‘How the fuck …’
‘The fuckin’ Yank pilot must’ve hit the wrong fuckin’ target!’
‘Oh my God, we’ve taken casualties!’ Major Martin started yelling from behind them. ‘We’ve taken casualties!’
As Tom and Sam turned in horror, they caught sight of a massive plume of smoke rising into the dawn sky up above the northern end of the fort. With his heart in his mouth Tom grabbed his binoculars and focused in on the devastation. Through all the smoke and dust, he could just make out that a missile had ploughed into the tower on the opposite side of the fort from them. The squat structure had been almost completely destroyed. Tom’s shocked mind struggled to make sense of the scene that he was seeing through his binoculars, and the cries that they were hearing over the radio. There was only one thing that he was certain of – t
hat his mates had been hit real bad.
‘WE GOT TO ABORT THE AIR STRIKES,’ Sam suddenly started screaming.
Amid all the confusion, Sam had suddenly remembered that the F-18s were inbound on their second bombing run. Jumping up from his position he pounded across the tower roof to Major Martin.
‘ABORT THE FUCKIN’ AIR STRIKES! ABORT! ABORT!’ Sam was yelling as he ran.
The Major and Sam dived for the radio piece and started screaming into it: ‘ABORT! ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!’
A split second later an F-18 pulled up from its attacking run and went tearing across the fort. They had stopped the second air strike just in the nick of time.
‘Where’s the fuckin’ casualties?’ Tom yelled in bewilderment, as he came racing across the roof to join them. ‘It’s the wrong fuckin’ tower.’
‘JDAM’s hit the north-eastern tower,’ Major Martin roared a reply. ‘Gotta be our boys hit there.’
‘But it’s the wrong fuckin’ tower,’ Tom repeated. ‘Our boys’re on the entrance tower. It’s the wrong tower –’
‘We’ve taken casualties bad!’ Major Martin started yelling.
‘I’m the only fuckin’ medic left alive, for all I know,’ Tom yelled back. ‘And my mates are over there in a world of pain and hurt.’
‘So get the hell outta here,’ the Major roared. ‘Go help your buddies. We’ll be right behind ya.’
‘BUT WHICH FUCKIN’ TOWER?’ Tom screamed.
‘Tom, Tom, let’s go find ’em,’ Sam cut in, grabbing his arm. ‘Let’s go find ’em, buddy. Let’s go find ’em.’
Jumping to their feet, Tom and Sam vaulted over the wall. As fast as they could they began retracing their steps towards the eastern side of the fort. Obviously, the air strike had gone horribly wrong, and somehow their own men had been hit. But what their shocked and confused minds couldn’t get to grips with was the fact that the JDAM had hit the north-eastern tower, and not one of their men should have been positioned there. In the battle plan agreed at Boxer Base the previous night, Captain Lancer’s team were supposed to take up positions on the eastern tower, over the main gateway to the fort. In which case, how could their SBS mates have been hit?
