Battleworn: The Memoir of a Combat Medic in Afghanistan

by Chantelle Taylor

  This is the wrong decision, and so I approach Maj. Clark, my OC. I get on well with the boss and Kev, so I don’t want any type of confrontation; nor do I want to make a situation out of nothing. Explaining to the major that the guys’ injuries do not require such a high priority, I advise him that we should change the category back down to a C.

  Maj. Clark acknowledges my point, but then says, ‘What if the MERT team won’t come because Tam is just a cat-C?’

  I explain that there may be more needy casualties upcountry, and if we start overcategorising patients, brigade HQ will question all of our nine-liners. Anxious, I want the boss to agree with me. I understand what he is feeling, and his actions are always for the benefit of his men. I just want him to trust me, and know that I need his support on this. I further explain that I will send a casualty update over the net every fifteen minutes to ensure that they know four hours is our cut-off time – if we wait any longer than that, the damage to Tam’s hand will become permanent. The MERT commander can review the downgrade to cat-C and then make an informed decision. The boss agrees and allows me to downgrade Tam and Duffy. No one is at fault here. Kev heard that Tam had a gunshot wound and automatically thought he was a cat-B. I am relieved that this has been resolved, and if anything, it has cemented my relationship with the boss. I set about preparing Tam and Duffy for evacuation.

  The rest of Monty’s platoon get back, and Davey meets them at the gate with water and rehydration sachets of Lucozade. This soon becomes a routine chore. Whoever has been out receives water and a Lucozade sachet at the front gate when they get back in. It’s a good way to simultaneously check the morale and physical well-being of the men. Just looking at a soldier’s face and body language can tell you a great deal. It’s a far better system than allowing soldiers to quietly go off and administer themselves. If heat illness goes untreated, it becomes deadly very quickly.

  A few of the lads come into the medical post to check on Duffy and Tam. We receive word that the MERT team and their Chinook are preparing to launch from Camp Bastion to pick up our casualties. This is welcome news. The boss and Capt. Wood, our company 2IC, both reassure me that we made the right call with Tam. I am relieved that the MERT team made the decision to come. We all put our faith in the system, and it has worked this time. Sometimes there may be a casualty far more desperate for the casevac than we are; other times it might be the reverse. I take a moment to think about my friends up north manning the FOBs. Our brigade is taking the fight to the Taliban at all levels, and in doing so, we sustain many casualties.

  The MERT call prompts us to push ourselves out towards the front gate. We get our casualties in the shade, and then we sit and wait. I contemplate taking them back up to the aid post, as I am informed that the MERT helicopter has yet to launch. I check in with Kev at the ops room, and he tells me that the helicopter is finally wheels up at Camp Bastion, so it is on its way.

  A few of the lads have joined our group to bid farewell to their muckers. I see that Stevie Howie is in the group. Stevie is a tough lad brought up on a rough council scheme in Glasgow. He has a strong character and manages to look as fresh as a daisy, even though he has just endured a two-hour contact during the hottest part of the day.

  Without warning, there is a feeling of panic and danger around us. An Afghan soldier narrowly misses me and my casualties with his Ford Ranger pickup truck. ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ!’ someone screams. The driver isn’t even a metre away; we are inches from his wheels. The idiot doesn’t even see what he has done; he just continues to drive on, leaving us in a heap on the ground.

  Stevie jumps up, going berserk. He brings his weapon to bear at the Afghan and starts yelling, ‘You stupit fuckin’ prick! You stupit fuckin’ prick!’

  Everyone in the group adds their ten-pence worth. Our guys are taking the brunt of the casualties out on the ground, and this wanker nearly mows down about six of us in the PB. The Afghan soldiers have been refusing to go out of the base, so this heightens an already tense situation. We manage to calm Stevie down, and I am relieved to hear the sound of a Chinook in the distance. I tell the guys that we need to push out. Stevie showed tremendous restraint at not losing it completely. It would be naive to judge his actions; he just spent the last two hours fighting off the Taliban, only to meet this threat inside the wire.

  Duffy places his arm around my neck and shoulders as I help him hobble onto the ramp of the Chinook. Abbie does the same for Tam. As quick as the wheels are down, they are off again. I receive a reassuring pat on the back from the door gunner on my way off. It catches me off guard, and I wonder if he knows something that I don’t.

  Abbie turns and says, ‘I guess that we are here for the long haul then, or at least until the marines take over.’

  Great news, I think. That is just shy of two months away!

  I run back to base and seek out Maj. Clark to explain the truck incident, making sure he knows all the facts before the situation gets out of control. He heads off for an informal chat with Lt Col Nazim. The ANA soldiers need much guidance with reference to discipline. We can’t risk a blue-on-blue situation, so the arrival of the OMLT can’t come quick enough.

  Mundane tasks are completed again before anyone relaxes. Water is guzzled by the gallon on every corner after another event-filled day. Watching the sun go down over Nad-e Ali is a welcome display of serenity; the quiet hum of the guys’ voices chatting offers a measure of peace in the midst of what is becoming a desperate time for B Company of 5 Scots.

  CHAPTER 4

  FLASHHEART ARRIVES

  THE BASE SETTLES DOWN AS WE WAIT FOR OUR USUAL TWILIGHT ATTACK. It arrives like clockwork: the initial strikes come from a variety of small arms; the follow-up of random bursts from .50 calibres and the throaty DShK are a timely reminder that the Taliban are equipped with more than just their ability to lay IEDs. What they lack in skill and discipline they make up for with their will to keep going. When you choose to take on an insurgency brainwashed and under the influence of the opium poppy, you should not find it surprising that they never tire of being killed. Pausing for a second in the midst of it all, I think about how bad life must be for a person to feel that way. But this is how it is with the Taliban. As soon as one fighter falls, another is on hand to pick up his AK-47. I have seen the exchange on the battlefield, bodies dragged away so quickly, you would miss it if you blinked.

  Our group cracks on, optimism filling the air. Banter and insults start flying around, so the blokes’ spirits must be as high as they were on day 1. The mocking moves to my music, which is taking its share of incoming. The Counting Crows play through a small speaker that I have stashed in my day sack. Certain items make life bearable in times of strife, so along with my yellow sharps container, the speaker is a must for my sanity. I mentally run through the music that has seen me through various combat tours.

  In 1999, during operations in Kosovo, I was sent to a platoon recce house which overlooked the border with Serbia. Van Morrison was played to death in the house. Intelligence reports concentrated on threats of incursion, along with potential kidnapping. We filled our limited downtime with card games, and the essential light discipline likened our rooms to small, illegal gambling dens. The shadow of toe-tapping to ‘The Bright Side of the Road’ was my only visual during those experiences.

  Paul Simon’s Graceland provided the background music for Sierra Leone in 2002, when I served in that beautiful country ravaged by the greed bought about by the supply and demand of the ‘blood diamond’. The illegal diamond trade in Africa is rife; diamond mines in the northern districts are guarded heavily by barbaric, ruthless employees of the West. For the locals forced to work the mines, life is cheap. I remember the dead bodies left lying in the gutter in the middle of Freetown – any claim on corpses meant that those picking them up must pay for their removal and burial. Families couldn’t afford to claim their lost children, so they were left roadside until the smell became unbearable. My initial three months were relatively
easy, but then I moved upcountry as part of a small military observation team. We travelled everywhere: Makeni, Kenema, and Bo were just a few of the many places we went. The eerie sound of the Mi-24 Russian Hind gunship above made for some interesting evenings. (The Hind is likened to, and sometimes preferred over, the AH-64 Apache.) The children of any war-torn country always affect me the most, and I dealt with a lot of child combatants in Sierra Leone – the youngest was just seven. His story remains permanently fixed in my mind, and I often wonder what became of him. The rebels who kidnapped him forced him to kill his entire family; this was his initiation. How do you heal a youngster who has been through such physical and mental trauma? Young girls taken were used as sex slaves. We Brits engaged in very successful operations in Sierra Leone; however, we waited far too long before we intervened, just as we always do.

  Hootie and the Blowfish saw me through the summer of 2003 in Iraq, and Snow Patrol kept me sane during my first tour of Helmand in 2006. Even now, the tracks ping so many memories, good and bad. Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones, and Creedence Clearwater Revival are fundamental albums on tour.

  Music is an important part of my life, and every experience, good or bad, has a soundtrack. It provides me with a way to come to understand things – at the very least, it gives me the means to try to put things into perspective. If I could have chosen a path for myself, it would have been that of a singer or songwriter, or perhaps both. I used to write lyrics and poetry as a child. The poetry grew darker through my teenage years, and I now put much of that down to the haze that engulfed me through my abuse of cannabis. The writing stopped when I was in my early twenties, as did the cannabis use. I’ve already shared how I forced myself out of ‘shitsville’ and on to the army careers office, but I didn’t describe music’s impact on the decision. The truth is, when I realised that I didn’t sound much like Sheryl Crow, I opted to join the army instead, and then becoming a combat medic was just the best fit for me. Lying on my stretcher in the CAP, still clad in my blood-stained, filthy combats, I know that I made the right decision.

  I let my thoughts go, turning my attention back to the ongoing banter. The Crows are the focus of much discussion, and it’s not long before I am also pinged to marry the interpreter that I spooned with in order to keep warm during our first night in the PB.

  Kev initiates this with, ‘Puttin’ oot on the first date, eh, mucker?’

  Rolling over on my stretcher and turning my back on Monty is against all of my better judgement, leaving my precious speaker vulnerable, but I do it anyway. Letting my eyelids drift shut to rest my eyes for a second, I suddenly hear Michael Buble bellowing out of my speaker. ‘What the fuck is this? Are we in a shopping centre? Is it Christmas?’ I shout out.

  Monty laughs before grabbing my speaker, guaranteeing that it’s out of reach of me. He tries in vain to defend his own collection of Buble swing.

  ‘Nice! Just the type of banging tunes we expect from a Scottish warrior, Monty.’

  Within minutes, the Crows are back on. Already in hard cover, we continue to sprawl out on the stretchers and roll mats on the floor. Laughing, we make fun of the different events that have taken place over the past few months.

  Then, without warning, our jovialities are interrupted. We all freeze for a second, as rounds start zipping through the blacked-out windows of the room we are in. A single round ricochets off the old blackboard and then bounces around on the floor in front of me. Monty starts laughing. It’s more of a nervous ‘what the fuck is that?’ laugh. We all pause, as still as the ‘dog statues’ that we saw on the first night: where else can we take cover? The walls are hardened, and we are already on the ground.

  I start laughing at Davey’s quick reactions; he moves like a stunned gazelle. We roll about cackling like children, happy in the knowledge that the rounds didn’t hit anyone. This began to get outrageous, and clearly we were getting a natural high from the adrenaline rush. It’s strange, but you get so used to rounds bouncing around that it doesn’t bother you the way it should.

  The barrage peters out, and I start what eventually becomes a daily ritual: I roll and smoke a cigarette. It signifies the end of the day, and it gives me something to look forward to. Tobacco is far easier to pack than cigarettes; my emergency supply for moments like this has found itself a new home: the map pocket in the side of my combat trousers.

  I wasn’t a regular smoker prior to this ‘atmospherics’ check on Nad-e Ali, a social smoker if I smoked at all, and now here I am smoking roll-ups like a hippie. Everybody is busy establishing their own workable routine of eating, sleeping, fighting, or bleeding. The gaze of a rabbit in headlights has faded. All the guys know the importance of rest and routine, so we all look forward to the peace that the night-time brings.

  Sgt Maj. Robertson and I make plans to start a daily walk round; we cover all the positions on the outer perimeter. It’s to check on morale of the troops more than anything. Davey asks me to check in on young Freddie McCabe, one of the junior soldiers cut off earlier today.

  Monty confirms that Freddie isn’t acting himself. ‘He’s quiet, Channy. Not sure why.’

  Young soldiers are never quiet; they have an energy that seems to go on and on. Freddie’s commander, Tam, was shot while trying to help the two young Jocks who were cut off during a firefight. On paper, reaction to contact works perfectly; in reality, you’ll find the nearest cover and drop into it. The last thing on your mind is keeping in a neat, regimental straight line. No one wants to be the guy suffering mentally, and no one wants to ask for help. At his age, Freddie is going through a lot more than many of his peer group at home. He, too, could have chosen a very different path. A fan of hardcore dance music and cans of Red Bull, he reminds me of Duffy.

  I ask him for a quick chat. He is reluctant at first, but I force him into it. ‘You can talk to me or one of the docs back in Camp Bastion,’ I tell him.

  These situations can be easier for a female medic to deal with because sometimes men worry that they will be judged if they show any weakness. When you are 18 and fighting this hard, your friends falling beside you, sometimes you need that cup of tea and a chat. I recognise that I may be morphing into my grandmother with the whole ‘cup of tea’ thing. ‘Right, so you have had both your legs blown off and could potentially lose a ball sack, how about a nice cup of tea and a digestive biscuit?’

  Straight-faced, I explain the scenario to Freddie.

  Laughing, he replies, ‘I wouldn’t mind the conversation if the tea was replaced with a Red Bull.’

  He gestures for us to sit down on a bench outside the aid post. Freddie doesn’t need me to patronise him, so rather than beat around the bush, I just ask him straight up what happened, and then I let him do the talking.

  ‘We got fuckin’ hit, so me and Duffy hit the deck. I looked over and saw rounds comin’ down the middle of the track between us and the rest of the multiple. They (the Taliban) musta had a fuckin’ gun position on the fuckin’ path.’ He relays the details, describing the incident and the feeling of panic at being cut off from his platoon. ‘Tam just came out of nowhere to our position, the mad cunt coulda been killed,’ he adds.

  Reminding him of the events when the WMIK got cut off, I explain that it’s normal to be freaked out. Making light of the situation, we joke that he may have shit his pants just as Duffy had said he had done, not literally of course.

  ‘I have no spare pants that I am willing to part with, Freddie.’

  Smiling, he responds, ‘Cheers for the offer, but I’ll live, eh.’

  I make a joke about the difficulties of doing our laundry, and he laughs. The small detail of washing the clothing that I am living in is something I always do under the radar, never wanting the entirety of the PB to see my underwear hanging on a washing line; black field undies are inappropriate visual aids. The three of us – Jen, Abbie, and I – are cut from the same cloth: we all place our underwear underneath the T-shirts that we wash. It’s a strange ritual, I know, but, looki
ng back, I am glad that we kept our dignity, if nothing else.

  Freddie laughs again as I continue the conversation about my own struggles, a quick switch fire so that he will forget his own. It works. My shifting the focus to myself helps to make light of the situation. We talk for about ten minutes about my washing routine, including my yellow sharps container. I ask if he would like to borrow it, and he declines. I reassure him that all of us are in new territory, regardless of how many years we have served. Fear is healthy, and that’s what probably kept him alive.

  I add, ‘All of my tours could be described as relatively tame compared to this one.’

  He laughs when I remind him about Duffy. The thought of Duffy now back in Lashkar Gah, annoying people again with his hardcore dance music, makes me smile.

  Ferris struts past as we are finishing up, shouting, ‘Man the fuck up, Freddie!’

  Freddie replies, ‘Get te fuck, ya prick.’

  This alone tells me that Freddie will be just fine; the best therapy comes from those who you share the experience with. ‘Ferris therapy’ wins again; not allowed to dwell too much, Freddie returns the favour by just cracking on.

  I know that many of the soldiers here are nursing thoughts of getting injured, and, worse still, of getting killed. We all think about the days and weeks ahead. With our friends evacuated daily back to Camp Bastion, our numbers are diminishing rapidly; we have lost at least a multiple worth of men, with a running score of about fifteen, including command elements. It’s not a great feeling, but it is something we all share and try to ignore.