by Damien Lewis
The Northern Alliance forces had come up with an ingenious, yet brutal, plan to escalate the subterranean assault – one designed to break the enemy’s resistance once and for all. A truckload of fuel drums had been driven in through the gateway of the fort, and the Afghan soldiers had rolled the drums over to the stronghold where the enemy was holding out. Getting the diesel down into the basement had proved tougher than expected though, as the enemy had kept firing on anyone who tried to pour it in through the windows. But the Afghans had soon realised that anyone standing or lying to either side of the basement’s main doorway was largely invisible to the enemy forces below ground. So General Dostum’s men had taken up their positions and used pipes to start feeding the contents of the fuel drums below into the dark basement.
The thick fuel oil had gushed down the stone steps. When a dozen of the drums had been emptied, the Afghan soldiers had stood back and thrown white phosphorous incendiary grenades into the darkness below. The exploding grenades threw off a thousand balls of burning white phosphor, some of which shot back up the steps of the entranceway. Almost immediately, flames started licking out of the doorway and windows of the basement, as a pall of greasy black smoke billowed over the building. For several seconds the stench of burning had enveloped the ancient castle, as conditions below ground became impossible for humans to bear. The flames and fumes would have quickly taken effect, burning and asphyxiating the enemy fighters – were it not for the fact that the heavy diesel oil proved almost impossible to ignite. Once the fire from the phosphorous grenades had died down the oil-soaked basement stubbornly refused to burn.
It was plain for all to see now that the battle for control of this ancient fortress had descended into a brute barbarity. In spite of the T-55 tanks and the high-tech warplanes and the modern weapons of war, the battle for Qala-i-Janghi had begun to resemble a scene from some castle siege set in the Dark Ages. As Mat watched over the battleground, it crossed his mind that it was like a classic scene of hell. A thick cloud of choking smoke hung over the southern end of the fortress. Scattered across the fort grounds were the bloated carcasses of General Dostum’s cavalry. Some of the limbs had been lopped off, where the ravenous enemy fighters had feasted on the raw horseflesh – the only food available since the battle began.
Hundreds of decomposing human corpses lay where they had fallen. While the bodies of the Afghan soldiers were covered in shamags, as a mark of respect, many of the enemy dead had been left where they had fallen. Several had been crushed under the tracks of the T-55 tank, as it had lumbered into the fort. As far as General Dostum’s men were concerned, through their betrayal the enemy fighters had lost any claims to honour and dignity even in death, and despite the fact that they were supposedly fellow Muslims.
As the smoke drifted away from the fort sporadic bursts of defiant gunfire still came echoing up from the basement. General Dostum’s men finally withdrew to the outer reaches of the fort with the body of CIA agent Mike Spann. They were more than happy to do so, as the Afghan soldiers remained spooked by the enemy’s suicidal bravery. They seemed indestructible, as if nothing were ever going to kill them or force them to give up their hold over the southern end of the fort.
A convoy of US and British vehicles was drawn up at the fort entranceway to receive the CIA agent’s body. Mat, Jamie, Sam, Tom, Ruff and the other SBS soldiers came down from the battlements to pay their last respects to the dead man. Over the previous weeks they had built up close working relationships with several of the CIA agents stationed at Mazar and elsewhere. As far as they were concerned they were all part of one team with a shared mission – to defeat the terrorist threat now emanating out of Afghanistan and menacing the wider world.
The Afghan soldiers carried Mike Spann’s body out of the fort on a stretcher, whereupon a sombre mood settled over the US and British soldiers gathered at the gates. His fellow CIA officers then took over and they draped his prone form in a US flag. A short prayer was said over the body, and then it was placed in one of the vehicles. On the first day of the fort uprising, the SBS soldiers had fought heroically either to save Mike Spann’s life, or to prove that he was killed in action. From the moment of the uprising itself, it had taken five days to prove conclusively that CIA Agent Johnny Michael Spann was dead.
That evening, back at the Old Schoolhouse, Mike Spann’s coffin was loaded on board a US helicopter to begin the first leg of the long flight back to the USA. He was given a guard of honour send-off with all the SBS troops in attendance. After the ceremony was over, an American agent drew Jamie to one side for a private conversation. It was the evening of day five of the fort siege now, and the agent was trying to find out exactly how Mike Spann had died on that first day of battle.
‘Listen, buddy, we kinda know each other pretty well by now and I wanna ask you a real private question,’ the agent said. ‘Like, d’you reckon Dave did enough to save Mike Spann in there? I mean, like, just your own personal opinion, you know.’
‘God, I can’t say, mate,’ Jamie answered. ‘I mean, how the hell do I answer a question like that? You’re asking me to move into the realms of speculation, mate.’
‘Hey, buddy, come on. You was there – when it all went down. You Brits are awesome, I mean like goddam indestructible. And I’m just asking your opinion on what went down in there.’
‘’Fraid I can’t say, mate. Best I can do is stick to the facts of what I know. We killed a lot of people in there. It’s not over yet – so we’ll probably do the same tomorrow and kill a lot more of the fuckers. And one of your blokes died too. I’m sorry for him. But that’s life, mate. I mean, shit happens.’
‘Well, all right, buddy, no worries. I mean, I was just sort of noodling over whether Mike may have killed himself, you know.’
‘Now why the fuck would he have done that?’ Jamie asked, sharply.
‘Cos like, maybe he was still alive, in the fort, buddy. Cos like, maybe the fuckin’ ragheads hadn’t managed to finish him off. Cos like, he sure as hell knew what was coming. So, he ended it all, before the motherfuckers could rape his soul. Rather that than face what those evil fuckers would do to him if they came back and got him that first day when the darkness came down.’
‘What, you saying he still had his weapon and turned it on himself?’
‘Something like that, buddy, yeah. I mean, if the body had just the one shot to the head, you’d think it kinda pretty likely, wouldn’t you?’
‘I might do. Yeah, I probably would do, mate. That’s what it had then, was it, just the one shot to the head?’
‘That’s what I heard, buddy. But I ain’t never seen it. And I can’t vouch for what I only heard.’
‘Then you don’t know shit, mate,’ Jamie said, with finality. He didn’t really appreciate such speculation, and thought the agent’s line of questioning had been well out of order.
The following morning, day six of the fort siege, was the moment when the SBS soldiers finally ventured into the interior of the fort. They advanced into the grounds following a rutted dirt track, the ground to either side being covered in tree branches that had been scythed off by the firepower unleashed during the previous days’ fighting. The twisted skeleton of a burned-out pickup lay by the side of the track. Further on, the ground was littered with the blackened detritus of war: a discarded boot, a smouldering rifle butt, a machine gun cut in two. Unexploded RPG rounds and mortar shells were embedded in the earth and all up the ramparts of the fort walls.
As they entered the southern end of the fort, the sight that met the SBS soldiers’ eyes was one of complete devastation. Scores of dead and decomposing bodies littered the grounds. Two Northern Alliance soldiers were piling corpses on to a trailer – but whether they were their Afghan comrades or the enemy dead no one was certain. One of the Afghans was perched atop a layer of dead bodies in the trailer, as his fellow soldier hauled another towards him. Stiffened, bloated limbs stuck out from the pile of corpses, forming odd, grotesque shapes. Tattered s
hreds of clothing and equipment hung down from the trailer, and littered the bloodied ground.
A handful of the enemy dead still had their hands tied behind their backs: clearly, they had failed to get themselves untied and join the uprising proper before they had been gunned down. Wherever the enemy fighters had launched their suicide attacks, they had either been cut to pieces by machine-gun fire and air strikes or they had blown themselves up intentionally. Consequently, there were eviscerated bodies, dismembered limbs and scraps of human flesh scattered around the blood-dried grass and the scorched, pockmarked walls. The stench of burning and of the decomposing dead was unbearable – and the SBS soldiers pulled their shamags over their faces to try to block out the sickening smell. As Mat walked on he stumbled over the blackened, charred stump of a hand. He glanced down at it momentarily, but it barely appeared human any more.
While the SBS soldiers wandered past the total carnage that lay all around them, the Northern Alliance fighters started to loot the dead. They searched for money, cigarettes and even pulled the shoes off the stiff, grey bodies. It had to be a sign that the fighting was nearing an end, Mat reasoned. The carcasses of some thirty dead horses – General Dostum’s finest – added a putrescent stench to the acrid reek of cordite still hanging in the air. The occasional explosion from the smouldering arms dump sent soldiers running in panic, jumping over dead bodies and diving for cover. No one could quite believe that the fighting was really over. Which in a way it wasn’t. Even in death, the enemy fighters still sought their revenge. Scores of the corpses had been booby-trapped with grenades in an attempt to kill anyone who tried to move them.
More worryingly still, the Afghan soldiers tasked with removing the bodies and securing the fort kept hearing muffled voices coming from below ground level. Suddenly, there was a burst of fire from an underground position, and two of the Afghan stretcher-bearers were cut down in a hail of AK47 fire. Angry Northern Alliance soldiers rushed forward and hurled grenades in through the nearest ventilation shafts. There were a series of powerful detonations that shook the earth, and gouts of smoke and flame shot up from the entranceway and windows of the enemy bunker.
To Mat and the other SBS troops it was hard to imagine how anyone below ground could have survived those explosions – let alone what had gone before. But suddenly, there was a long burst of answering fire from the enemy, and the SBS soldiers were forced to dive for cover, along with their allies. The two Afghan fighters nearest the enemy bunker emptied a magazine each from their AK47s through the ventilation shafts. More grenades were thrown into the smoky gloom below, but it was hard to say with what effect. No one was keen to go down into that basement and check.
‘Maybe we should go have a chat with them,’ Mat announced to Jamie. The SBS soldiers had taken cover behind a brick-built wall. ‘Like get a brew on. Two sugars or three? And talk ’em into surrender.’
There was a ripple of laughter among the men.
‘There’s got to be a way to finish it,’ Jamie remarked. ‘What’re the options, mate?’
‘Options?’ said Mat. ‘Well, we can enter the bunker and die, or enter the bunker and die, or enter the bunker from another direction and still bloody die. Or just die. Take your bloody pick, mate.’
‘After you, mate,’ Jamie replied, with a grin.
‘Well, we’ve tried fire, haven’t we, mate?’ said Mat, after a pause. ‘So how’s about we try water. What about flooding the fookers out?’
‘Like how exactly, mate?’ Jamie asked.
‘Simple. Water runs downhill, don’t it?’ said Mat. ‘So get the Afghans to hose a load of water down there from the irrigation channels. They got to have water pumps somewhere. Pump the water down the ventilation shafts.’
‘Fuckin’ awesome idea, mate,’ Tom cut in.
‘We’ll freeze the fookers out,’ Mat announced. ‘It’ll take a while, but I ain’t in no hurry to go down there and die.’
The SBS and Afghan soldiers went into a huddle as Mat outlined his plan for drowning the enemy out of their holes. Eventually, he explained, the water level would rise to dangerous levels and the enemy would be forced to give themselves up. And so it was that the Afghan soldiers, aided by their special forces colleagues, diverted the water from one of the main irrigation channels and sent it pouring down into the basement. The siege for the fort had now become a war of attrition, as the allied forces waited for the enemy’s will to crack.
It was the night of day six down in their subterranean holdout and the brothers’ existence had become a living hell. All evening long the freezing cold waters had poured into the basement, rising higher and higher. Dozens of corpses lay floating on the dark waters, adrift in a scum of blood, human faeces and diesel oil. The walls of the basement were scorched and blackened with explosions and burn marks, and pockmarked with bullet holes. Over everything hung the reek of death. For those who were still holding out down here, these last few hours had been distinguished only by a leaderless, brute survival.
There had been nothing glorious or noble or uplifting about the last hours of the jihad at Qala-i-Janghi. There had been nothing that might suggest that Paradise was near at hand. But there had been an abundance of terror, despair, defiance and fear – and madness and insanity by the bucketload. Over the previous two days many had died slow, brutal deaths from their wounds; others had burned to death in agony, as the diesel fuel had ignited and turned into a raging inferno; yet more had died the numbing death of hypothermia, as the freezing waters had sapped their strength and their will to live; still more had died from nothing more tangible than simply giving up the will to go on.
The surviving brothers had spent a night entombed below ground, chest-deep in the stinking, icy-cold waters. As the last hours of the fort siege ground agonisingly slowly towards dawn, one of the brothers had spoken up – was it for sanity, a vague sense of compromise, for survival? Or simply because this living pain could be endured no longer and so someone had to call a halt. The brother was shaking uncontrollably and he knew that he was close to collapse. If he went down in the freezing waters the brothers could not save him and he would die a horrible death. He had heard the frantic, thrashing, choking deaths of others, as they had drowned in the shadows.
‘If we don’t give up we’ll all die,’ the brother had announced, matter-of-factly, voicing the thought that was on several of their minds. ‘If we do give up they might kill us but it can’t be worse than this.’
There were muted murmurs of agreement from the darkness all around him, where half-crazed, animal eyes gazed out of sunken sockets, sickly white in the cloying blackness. Without another word that ‘brother’ had turned and waded through the chest-deep waters towards the steps that led out of the basement, and prepared himself to surrender to the enemy forces.
18
ENDGAME
BY 6.30 A.M. on the morning of day seven of the fort siege the SBS soldiers and their Afghan allies were back inside the southern end of the fort. Conditions in that basement had to be horrific by now. The surviving enemy had spent hours in the freezing water that had been pouring down on top of them all night long. Overnight, an old fire truck had been brought in to help pump gallons of water into the enemy’s lair. None of the soldiers had any idea how many survivors were holding out down there. And none of them were tempted to go take a look, either. Although they figured it could be no more than a handful, they’d already learned the hard way that to fight their way into the basement would mean all but certain death.
At 7 a.m., Mat thought he spotted movement in the entrance to the basement. Instinctively, he raised his Diemaco and prepared to fire. Slowly, painfully slowly, a lone figure came crawling up the steps. Mat kept his finger poised on the trigger as he followed the enemy fighter. He tracked his every move as the figure emerged above ground, blinking, from the darkness into the harsh sunlight. He was a pathetic sight. He was drenched to the skin, shivering uncontrollably and looked utterly exhausted. Yet after what they had witn
essed over the last seven days, Mat knew what these men were capable of. Maybe this one was on a last-ditch suicide mission, with grenades hidden under his clothing. Mat held his fire, but kept the enemy covered.
As he reached the top of the steps, the figure paused and looked around himself confusedly. Two of the Afghan soldiers moved forward, grabbed the enemy fighter and shoved him roughly to his knees. They barked commands at the man, and then began frisking him, removing all of his weapons. Finally, his boots were taken and his hands cuffed tightly behind his back. Clearly, the Northern Alliance weren’t taking any chances with the survivors. One by one, twelve further fighters stumbled out of the basement, several still clutching their AK47 assault rifles. The thirteen emaciated survivors were black with diesel oil and looked like the walking dead.
Each fighter was quickly disarmed and taken away, being made to walk barefoot down the dirt track leading towards the fort entrance. There, a red container lorry was waiting for them. Several of the enemy were in such a bad way that they were unable to walk even the short distance to the container lorry. They were loaded on to the same stretchers that the Northern Alliance soldiers had been using to remove the dead from the fort, and carried across to the waiting truck. The enemy survivors were suffering from dehydration, exhaustion, blood loss, hypothermia and asphyxiation – not to mention the wounds they had received during the days and days of fighting.
As the Afghan soldiers stood guard, several members of the International Committee of the Red Cross arrived. The ICRC workers had come to tend to the prisoners’ injuries. One of the prisoners couldn’t stop shaking. Another had stopped moving, and appeared to have fallen unconscious. The ICRC staff tried feeding the men apples and bananas, but most of them were too weak to eat. One Chechen fighter was rocking back and forth, as he stared at an ugly shrapnel wound in his leg. He was mouthing off in Russian, still spouting extremist rhetoric about killing the kafir. He didn’t realise that some of the Northern Alliance soldiers could understand him. One of them answered him sharply in Russian, ordering him to shut up or face the consequences. He immediately changed his tone and began begging for first aid, food and water.
