Carney's War

by James T. Emry

  Cam was a Scot originally from near Galashiels in the Borders; although his accent was Glaswegian due to the fact he had moved there as a young lad, following his father’s work running bars. Small and stocky in stature he had made up for it with a razor wit and a voice pitched in such a way it could never be ignored. He was also extremely fit, a natural athlete, and always going on at others about keeping in shape. He was the main man, the “Staffy” both for Joe and the group; the point of contact for just about anything they needed to know or do.

  The “regs” were younger and completely different in their attitudes and behaviour. Some of them were more like students in uniform. For them it was all about “career” and going up the ranks even when they got busted back down again for various misdemeanors. It was a strange form of snakes and ladders. Discussion in the NAAFI revolved around such issues although Joe and Cam quickly became bored with the “shop” conversations and engaged in games of frenzied “rude” scrabble.

  Visiting FOBs, patrol bases and checkpoints in order to check “Intel” reports and assess a range of items, meant that they were all going to have their work cut out in the coming months. In actual practice it meant they would have to get used to using the “helis” which involved getting to the designated area at Bastion One and waiting. Only to be told that there was actually no transport for them that day as the aircraft were needed elsewhere – as there were other people more important than them.

  Their role did not seem to be absolutely essential in the scheme of things; infantry, “SF”, medics, generals and even the media were ahead of them in the queue. But they heard that it was even worse if you had finished a job in a FOB and were waiting to get back to Camp Bastion. You might be out there for days.

  ***

  Az was travelling in a richly decorated local bus from Kandahar down to Musa Q’aleh at the northern end of the Helmand Valley. He had managed to convince the Taleb commanders that he could put most types of explosive device together. However, he had thought about the training he had received and now resolved that there was a certain amount of design involved: there had to be the requisite amount of explosive with things like pressure plates. With some IEDs he felt that there was no real “design”; just pressing a switch or making a call was all that was required.

  The bus went through a checkpoint before entering the top of the valley, then driving past the joint ANA-British base where the local governor resided in Musa Q’aleh. They stopped in the market place and some local men met him. The plan was then to lay low for a while, maybe two or three days, before looking at which compounds they would use.

  It wasn’t just about whether they could trust the local populace, although this figured highly in Az’s reckoning. Az knew full well that many locals were on the side of the local governor and former Taleb commander, who resided just above the DC HQ. The buildings forming the latter were also the main local area ISAF base and housed a company of British soldiers. The commander had gone over to the Khuffurs a year before and had a network of informants throughout the villages. No one could be trusted. But proximity to the DC and surveillance by UAVs were bigger issues in many respects as Az and the men needed to be able to “dissolve” having planted an IED. There were other FOBs and bases dotted around and the area had been kinetic for a number of years. Az had even watched mainstream British TV documentaries and reports for the area and used them as a training aid.

  ***

  “And you think the EU is behind this, Jeff? That they are orchestrating such undemocratic acts?” Khalil and Jeff were having one of their weekly meetings in a café at the back of Piccadilly. Luckily for Khalil the basement area was deserted.

  “There is no accountability in the new Europe; they waste millions every day on pointless legislation and in the corrupt systems of Strasbourg and Brussels. If you want to see politicians over-claiming on expenses then go to those places; they make our MPs look honest. But it is the Germans who are at the heart of this corruption; in fact they are the ones promoting it.”

  Khalil didn’t know what to say. He had heard some arguments in his time, but this was a new one. At the same time he had read about and heard a lot from Jeff Katz to give him a second chance.

  “The German mindset is still one of domination; they have to win at everything. They are too competitive and want to control Europe. They do not get it that the rest of Europe and much of the world fears them and despises them at the same time. Remember, there is no such thing as a German democrat; they are liberal only for so long as you agree with them and then as soon as you don’t you are the enemy. They will never change.”

  “But Jeff, their country has changed. This isn’t 1939,” replied Khalil.

  “How honestly do you know that? The way things are going in this country and other member states, individuals and even local authorities will not have any say in future political decisions; nor any say in the governance of this enormous corrupt behemoth of an organization called the EU. Only the Germans will be able to run it. We don’t need any more debate on this we just need to fight them and our own politicians and get out.

  Khalil gave Jeff a long hard stare, until Jeff replied: “Khalil people should remember that as far as terrorist actions go it was no accident that the German authorities let the terrorists escape after the slaughter of Israelis at the Olympic Park in Munich in 1972. It was also no accident that Jews were murdered on German soil. Nor was it an accident that the Meinhoff gang supported Middle Eastern terrorists long before 9/11 and trained with them. Some of those German terrorists are free right now under EU law, including one of the female ringleaders who was a true Nazi and hated Jews. It is a disgrace, Khalil.”

  “If that is the situation then what of their involvement in the ‘War on Terror’ and the fact their soldiers are in Afghanistan? Why do we, or the Germans, still support NATO?”

  “You tell me, Khalil. I don’t get the need to have so many people out there as they have no clear objectives. Of course, I recognize their bravery. But look at the figures; we have lost far more people due to homegrown terrorism than actions by terrorists from other countries. The reason we are getting attacked is precisely because of our presence out there and we cannot break down the networks. We should really be sorting out our own society and you can deal with that in a lot of different ways; for example, giving people a decent education. I mean look at the gun crime in some of our cities. We are losing more young people on home soil to stabbing and shooting than we are through terrorist acts although we are not spending billions trying to sort out that problem, are we?”

  “You are very persuasive, Jeff. You talk too much, no one can get a word in edgeways, you know. Still it’s interesting listening to you.” Khalil paused. “Have you got any IT work you need doing?”

  “I will see what I can find, Khalil. We have a group of Germans, funnily enough, coming over in the next few days to see how local government is being mismanaged, sorry I mean managed, to the benefit of our citizens. You can come along if you want.”

  ***

  Joe and Cam ascended the tailboard into the hold of the Chinook helicopter and helped roll on the rest of the boxes and bags, which would all be stacked in the centre of the aircraft while the men sat down the sides.

  “Last call for Private Murdoch!” Cam couldn’t resist shouting in Joe’s ear. Joe laughed loudly; they were to be in the location of Musa Q’aleh in the north of Helmand Province for a few weeks on various tasks.

  The Chinook flew fast and low over the compounds twisting its way towards the DC HQ in Musa Q’aleh district. As it approached it rose slightly, ascending the hill leading up to the Helicopter Landing Zone: it then banked sharply and turned through 180 degrees, whipping up dust across the camp. It landed gently on the dusty HLZ.

  The journey had taken twenty-five minutes from Camp Bastion and the place looked like something out of the Crusades: mud walls and defensive positions creeping up the hillside. It had obviously been used as a fortified base fo
r a very long time indeed.

  From the HLZ above the main camp there was a clear view of the market and surrounding hills and villages at the top of Helmand Valley. It had always been a great spot for an ambush and that was why someone had built the old fort in that location centuries before. At the head of the valley was another fortified position, visible from the HLZ. It was on top of a cliff face with a huge radio mast dominating the area. The only vegetation, dusted as it was due to the summer heat and wind, was on the valley floor and around the market of Musa Q’aleh. The steep sides of the valley were brown; in varying shades such that they seemed to shimmer depending on the time of day. You could make out houses amongst the shimmering compounds. But it was not the place for a walkabout. Further north was the Mount of Doom as the British “Toms” called it. It had been the scene of many firefights and was a spectral shape hovering near the camp.

  They were given the RSOI briefing for the camp, which generally explained standing orders and where everything was located. They got to the transit tents and set up their one piece, mosquito net pods and sleeping cots, arranging their kit quickly before heading off to ‘scoff’ in the cookhouse tent.

  Cam and Joe then spent the rest of the day working out of the ISO containers at the top of the camp next to the HLZ going through incident reports, checking statements and any weapons forensics. Everything had to be entered onto a form and accounted for. An ATO would be dropping by for a chat at some point, according to a corporal of horse from the Household Cavalry who was working near them.

  “He must be the ammunition storeman,” mentioned Cam to Joe on a soft drink break, the temperature hovering around fifty degrees in the ISO containers. Every time a helicopter landed their working area became a cloud of flying grit and sand and they had no option but to dive back into the ISO container. Most of the time the helicopters kept the rotors going, and Joe was expected to mount guard on the walls. It didn’t always happen in practice, but over the next few days they devised a system with the storeman whereby one of them would mount guard on the wall. There was the occasional rattle of machine gun or small arms fire and the even more occasional sound of an explosion down the valley.

  The general insanity of the place was compounded by a cross outside the padre’s tent on which the padre had placed a number of cylumes to light it up at night. “Quite a target indicator,” Joe had joked with Cam. The tuck shop generally had no food in it, just pictures of Mars bars and cans of pop. It was set into the mud and Hesco wall of the base, near the gym, which also looked like it had been hewn out of the mud walls. If you actually wanted a Mars bar or can of pop then a word with one of the Afghans on camp usually did the trick. They were cooled by the ingenious means of being kept in a tin in a bucket of water with a prevailing breeze.

  ***

  The men had finished their prep for the IEDs and split into the teams of three required to deliver them. They dispersed and Az was assigned a few men and told to go and stay near to one of the patrol routes a few hundred metres north from the DC HQ. They were also told that they would have to help defend one of the safe houses if and when attacked as they were on constant look out for British soldiers deploying from armoured vehicles.

  It had been an eventful summer; not everything had gone ISAF’s way. A number of their patrols had been hit with varying degrees of success. As winter approached, the coalition would be looking at stepping up the disruptive activities and Az knew it. However, for now, Az was struggling with the Pashtun dialect; he had picked up a lot in the last few months, but he was still far from fluent.

  “A-salaam alaykum,” he said to the other men in his team. They nodded and muttered back, but he had obviously not made an impression. He didn’t want them to think he was some kind of Pakistani tourist, there just to observe.

  “Chaodedunki toki. Cheri prate di?” Az asked, enquiring where the explosives were stored.

  “Za no puhezham,” one of the men responded with a grin; he hadn’t understood what Az had said, or so he claimed.

  “So it’s like that,” Az said to himself.

  In the next second he grabbed the man round the lapels and threw him to the ground shouting at him in Pashtun, “Taase puhezhai?” – “Do you understand now?”

  Others arrived to pull the men apart and one had his AK raised. Az shouted across the compound in Arabic.

  “If you don’t want me here then I will head off right away; just say it.” It had been partly directed at the Commander who came running over.

  “What’s the problem here?”

  “Your jangalay is quite clearly unhappy working with a foreigner; so you may as well send me away. It’s pointless.”

  At that the commander started beating the man Az had thrown to the ground, throwing him down and kicking him in the stomach repeatedly. He hit the man’s closest comrade in the face. No one moved an inch in the compound. The commander shouted at two other men to come forward; two of his best and most trusted.

  “You will take these; they are my nephews. They will not give you any trouble whatsoever and they will help you with the others as well. These two are filth and I will deal with them. They are to be replaced anyway.”

  At that he kicked the man on the ground again. He was unconscious. Az knew the beatings were meant not just to discipline the men, but as a warning to everyone else. Without discipline there could be no victory.

  ***

  By the following day three IEDs had been planted and the fighters were now positioned in different locations not far from the main compound where they suspected that an attack was imminent. They knew from the patterns set by the patrols that the ISAF force was homing in on their area. Many vehicles had been stopped and British convoy commanders had been contacting the local elders through the “Terps” as the British called their interpreters. Some had been taking details and photos of local men; explaining that it was just part of standard procedure to the local elders.

  The Taleb commander said to Az that he had laughed when he had been told by an elder that a British officer had been trying to use the phrases “insaani bam” and “bam achawunkay” meaning suicide bombers. The old man claimed to the officer that he hadn’t understood and asked the Terp to translate. When he did the old man feigned ignorance again, as if he was going to give them any details.

  Locally, everyone knew that the British were about to hand Musa Q’aleh over to the Americans and the whole process of winning the hearts and minds of the locals would start over again. Time would always be on the side of the Talebs.

  Az was now put in charge of a larger group of fighters. The commander had been impressed with the way he had thrown the man to the ground for being insubordinate. “If only I had more like you,” the commander said to Az. “You’re a natural askar.”

  As it happened Az’s new men were lying around in various states of abandon and showing little interest in any activity. Az wasn’t having any of it and went round kicking feet and forcing them to get up and carry out tasks. He was also on the lookout for opium smokers. He muttered quietly to himself: “If there’s one thing about this place, it’s all these fucking dopeheads.”

  At 9.30pm a warning came round: “Expect action tonight.” Az suddenly felt warmed by the news; finally his training was being put to use. Three hours later they heard the familiar sound of the twin rotor helicopters flying along low over the compounds. The British were sending specialists in for an assault.

  “This is it!” he thought. He readied the men and made sure that they would be prepared to move location as fast as possible having been given the signals. Time seemed to slip away slowly and the wait was unbearable. In the end Az thought he was going to explode, but finally they were told there was movement locally. Another two hours ticked away; and then suddenly two explosions coming from compounds to their left about three hundred metres away. He was waiting for the signal from one of the two nephews and the Pakistani radios, but nothing came.

  “Lutfan, lutfan,” he said to the
other nephew who was standing next to him, begging for information.

  “Ma shora,” the nephew said. “Don’t move.”

  The foreigners and ANA were attacking a compound, but it wasn’t one where any weapons or explosives were hidden. Jangalays were fighting back from different sides. Az could see the tracer shots coming down and the fighters moving back as the ANA tried to outflank them.

  “It’s not worth us firing until they are within range; and if we move we will be cut down,” said the nephew.

  However, seconds later shots were hitting the walls just metres from them; they must have been sighted through NVGs and identified. Az gave the order and all ten men under his command started shooting back. Three RPG rounds hit the area from where the tracers were coming. Az and his men had the greater firepower and seemed to have the upper hand as the attackers moved back. They must have taken casualties.

  “They were typical ANA,” said the nephew. “They never follow through. They just shoot to impress the British and then they dissolve when we hit back with greater firepower. They are all from the North; this is not their area and they don’t want to die here.”

  Az had heard all this before, but it sounded sweeter coming from this man in the heat of action.

  “Toghanday! Toghanday!” Az shouted. He wanted another two RPG rounds to be fired at the attackers. They were soon in the air and Az felt the blast wave as they hit the compound walls. At best they would have caused shrapnel, but it sent a message that they were stronger in number than the attackers had figured.

  In all, three of Az’s men were slightly wounded by shrapnel. The ANA had lost two men killed and others wounded according to a local “Dicker” who also said that the combined ISAF force had been looking not just to find hidden weapons and explosives; they also wanted to check the area for forensics and Intel ahead of handing over to the US forces. All they found at the end of the day were a few rusting AK47s and some containers; not any home made explosive, timers or detonating chord.