Battleworn: The Memoir of a Combat Medic in Afghanistan

by Chantelle Taylor

My medical team, LCpl Sean Maloney, Pte Abbie Cottle, me, and LCpl Jenny Young.

  Sgt Richard ‘Monty’ Monteith, B Company (5 Scots).

  Lcpl Kev Coyle and me; ‘battleshock’ after our first night on ‘that roof’ in Nade-Ali.

  Afghan soldier ‘Medi’s’ direct hit with an RPG; unfortunately, Cpl Tony McParland got in the way.

  My brother David and the lucky rosary beads, kept in the inner sleeve of my body armour.

  Original casualty list 1

  Original casualty list 2; paper was at a premium.

  Sgt Scotty Mcfadden, B Company (5 Scots).

  A grab bag of ammunition lies in front of my medical bag – we are soldiers who carry medical packs, not medics who carry weapons

  Cpl Tam Rankine flanked by his muckers before he is lifted – we made the four-hour deadline.

  Cpl Scotty Pew’s .50 gun position on the roof, under constant attack, giving every patrol eyes on potential threats, engaging with accuracy and speed.

  Boydy, pre-gunshot wound.

  Boydy, post-gunshot wound.

  The men of B Company, ‘Holding Nade-Ali’.

  The Helmand Diet’ – best-kept secret in the world.

  My telephone hub, below the .50 cal.

  Sgt Major Davey and I manning the

  51 mm like a well-oiled machine.

  Cpl Stu Pearson receiving the QGM from our queen. Stu suffered more than ten separate injuries from the infamous mine strikes near the Kajaki Dam.

  Cpl Mark Wright lost his life in the minefield at Kajaki; he was awarded the George Cross for his outstanding courage and bravery.

  On the IED-littered canal road to Nawa district.

  My good friend Sgt Phil Train (2 PARA).

  My grandfather Buck Taylor of ‘Baker Troop’ 41 Independent Commando RM, leaving for a daylight combined RM/US raid on the north-east coast of North Korea.

  Life in the private sector has helped me understand the once-hated ‘bigger picture’.

  CHAPTER 5

  FACE-TO-FACE WITH THE TALIBAN

  OVERNIGHT, AS IF BY MAGIC, A SHOWER UNIT HAS APPEARED IN THE middle of the base. It looks like a tepee, the type of shelter you find at the Glastonbury music festival. Since our arrival, no one has been able to have a proper wash; most of us have taken to using my multipurpose yellow sharps container and a flannel or small cloth. I have gotten used to being grubby, and it no longer bothers me. Still, the shower is a welcome sight for all of us.

  Kev and I sit quietly, relaxing in the ops room. Maj. Clark is enjoying his first shower, and Capt. Wood is reading outside. Daydreaming on my roll mat, I think about what may become of us down here. My moment of peace is interrupted by a conversation developing outside. Flashheart is discussing how the lack of amenities must be taking its toll on the men of B Company, worse still for the female soldiers who are attached. Kev looks at me with a smirk, already knowing that I will have something to say about it.

  I ignore the conversation until the role of women on the front line is raised. Kev’s smirk is now a full-on Cheshire cat grin. Smiling back, I acknowledge that I have heard Flashheart’s comments but am far too relaxed to engage in shit chat with the man so early in the morning. I hold out for a whole two minutes, and then Flashheart appears in my peripheral vision. From the moment he arrived, I knew it was only a matter of time before he would start to annoy me.

  ‘So, Sgt Taylor, what do you think?’ he asks.

  ‘About what, sir?’ I reply.

  ‘Females,’ he says. ‘Females serving in the infantry.’

  I pause for a second, looking at the floppy-haired officer before me. I scan his kit and scrutinise the way he is dressed. I get eyes on two knee pads, one on each knee. No one ever wears two knee pads; you only need two if you are busy doing stuff you shouldn’t be. I only packed one knee pad, and the rest of B Company has done the same. If he was defusing a bomb, maybe he would be forgiven, just like the dude in The Hurt Locker pulling up a daisy chain with his bare hands. (A daisy chain is a long line of any number of IEDs, usually initiated by one device or trigger, tactics used with devastating effect during the uprising in Iraq in 2004.) Flash reminds me of one of ‘those soldiers’, the type who will wear a full set of waterproofs just in case it rains – very much a precautionary operator, as opposed to a remedial one.

  This told me all that I needed to know about Flashheart. Happy to engage in his shit chat, and without too much thought, I reply swiftly, my tone unwavering and with just a hint of sarcasm. ‘From my own experiences, I am personally not keen on it; however, if it is about choice, roles should open up. There are plenty of weak individuals being carried already, though, aren’t there, sir?’

  Blushing slightly, he offers no comeback to my response. The only sound is laughter coming from our 2IC outside. Capt. Wood and I have forged a solid working relationship, and we’ve already had this conversation. He knows me and my team well and has come to rely on us, as we have him. We spent much time together in Nawa, a district to the north of Garmsir. He’s a witty young officer undoubtedly destined for great things.

  When I hear liberals having their often-heavy debates about equality in the armed forces, I think, Send your daughter or sister to the front line; better still, send yourself, and soak up a bit of atmospherics in Nad-e Ali, Sangin, or Marjah; then you can make an informed decision. There are women who have the stomach to push a bayonet into another person, twist it, take it out, and do it again and again, in order to be sure that the enemy is dead. Those types are a rarity; female soldiers already play a key role in many areas of the military: intelligence, technical areas, dog handling, command positions, fighter pilots, Apache gunship pilots, and, of course, combat medics. In Helmand, some of the bravest young soldiers are the females driving the unit supply trucks across the open desert. These convoys constantly face Taliban attacks. Of course there are also the women who serve with MERT.

  In Afghanistan, women have been forced to squeeze into the front line because we have so few troops trying to stabilise the area. For many years, there were more than 20,000 British troops in Northern Ireland; yet, when we first deployed to southern Afghanistan, we sent just 4,500 troops, and it took several years before that was increased to 10,000.

  As a military force, we simply cannot provide the safe and secure environment to allow reconstruction to take place. All the humanitarian efforts will be futile if the insurgency is allowed to continue and, in some cases, expand. The only way that the UK could have ever realistically delivered success in southern Afghanistan would have been to surge troops to at least 30,000. Then, in the early years, we might have been able to hold on to the ground that we fought so hard for. We name FOBs and PBs in memory of our fallen, yet do not have the good grace to keep hold of them. Our soldiers should never have been exposed to situations where they are so obviously outnumbered by the enemy.

  I recall an incident back in 2006, when a small number of paratroopers remained isolated for more than a month in the district centre of Musa Qaleh. Against all odds, the men held the base, only to see it handed back to Taliban control six months later. How is that justified, and who makes the decision? With no strategic gain in handing it back, we as soldiers on the ground are left a little dispirited knowing that even the ever-so-important ‘big picture’ isn’t gaining, either. We the Brits are trying to secure a country twice the size of Wales; never indifferent to the cause, we remain steadfast when the decision makers get it wrong. The UK government did not increase troop numbers to any significant level until 2008, perhaps through fear of losing public support. This may have been generated by concern that Britain would see more soldiers killed; in the end, the Americans came to our rescue. The lefties in Parliament are all but destroying the fabric of our society. We need a Churchill or Thatcher back in the top spot, the kind of Brit who knows how to take care of business overseas.

  These are my views, and I’m not shy about sharing them. It’s life or death for us here; there’s no time for nons
ense, and I have no patience for it, even when it’s just shit chat. I’ll give it right back to Flashheart again if the opportunity presents itself.

  Relaxing again, I make a cup of tea. Abbie and Jen soon join me, and the three of us discuss the wish list of kit that should be arriving in the resupp. Just when I start thinking it’s safe to chill out, Flashheart saunters into the ops room, holding what looks like a small French coffee press. ‘Anyone for coffee?’

  I look at Abbie, who in turn looks at Jen, and then all three of us look at Kev. A second later, the giggling starts. Shaking my head, I politely decline his offer, burying my head in my bivvy bag.

  Flashheart makes his coffee, which he takes outside. He sits on the bench, sipping his coffee and smoking a Marlboro Lights cigarette. He looks just as comfortable here in Nad-e Ali as I’m sure he would sitting outside a pub in the West End of London. His annoying aura makes him quite interesting; I find myself watching him as he cuts about the place. This helps me pass the time and gives me something amusing to think about, a welcome respite from recent more-depressing thoughts.

  The entertaining moment is interrupted as the radio net gets loud and busy. We hear a contact report from the Pathfinder call sign, which involves heavy fighting in Marjah, to our south. Quiet time is on hold as we listen to the drama unfold.

  ‘We were lucky down there, mucker,’ Kev says.

  ‘I know, mate. Let’s hope they are too,’ I reply.

  Neither of us says anything else, but I start thinking about our time in Marjah, part of which is described in the prologue. B Company had not long returned from the Nawa district, south of Lashkar Gah, when we were sent down to an unknown AO in Marjah. As the lead medic of B Company, I had deployed along with the command group. On top cover with Kev, we covered arcs like everyone else on our patrol. As a non-combatant, my role allowed me to protect myself and my patients. But modern warfare didn’t see the Red Cross or Crescent as a sign of peace: we were targeted just like everyone else; if anything, we were seen as a weaker and easier objective for enemy fighters. My role on top cover was more about prevention than cure, as sitting in the back with no visual on the ground would have made me a very easy target. The road move to Marjah was a long and slow process. Every few hundred yards, we had to stop at what were considered to be vulnerable points (VPs) – that is, places the Taliban might attack from, or where they might plant IEDs. We had to get out and search the ground with mine detectors, checking for booby traps; this is a lifesaving process called ‘Op Barma’. The drill was enforced at almost every VP. Nobody enjoyed the time-consuming task, but everyone understood the importance of it.

  The week before our trip, we had lost three lads, along with a female soldier, so no one complained that we were being cautious. It was because members of our own company had been hit prior to our trip to Marjah that I came to be on these patrols in the first place: the company needed medical cover. Cpl Neil McKenzie, who was then B Company’s lead medic, had been injured when he was thrown out of the WMIK that initiated a sizeable IED. He and a couple of others were extremely lucky to survive. That day, their open-top Land Rover earned its reputation as a better choice than the heavier armoured vehicles.

  The heat from the sun made the journey unbearable at times. With nowhere to shelter, we were at the mercy of Afghanistan’s cloudless blue skies. A trick I had learnt in the jungle of Sierra Leone helped to keep our water supply at a decent temperature. The key was to drench an old sock in water and then place the warm bottle inside of it. The warmth in the water evaporates into the sock, leaving the water relatively cool. It was a small luxury that made life in the desert bearable.

  Initially, we stayed in the open desert outside of Marjah. Our mission was to probe and report on atmospherics and any unusual activity in the area. During intelligence briefs, Marjah had been identified as a haven for insurgents intent on the cultivation of poppies.

  Our operation was set over several days. At night, we would use the desert as a makeshift base. It provided clear 360-degree arcs, so an all-round defence stance was adopted. On the first day of the patrol, I saw a suspect vehicle, full of what we considered fighting-age males. It went tearing past our convoy, between five hundred and six hundred metres away. It got everyone’s attention and was a small combat indicator of what was yet to come. During dark hours, the general routine would normally be to rest around our vehicles, eating our scoff, covering radio stag after last light, and waiting for sunrise.

  During the hottest part of the day, we would try to find shade, and in the middle of the desert that task can be interesting. I remember finding that the coolest place was down beside one of the Land Rover wheels; I somehow managed to squeeze my five-foot-eight-inch frame into that tiny shadow.

  After several days, half the company was given orders to return to Lash; the rest of us would continue to probe in and around the outskirts of Marjah. That night, we took some IDF on our desert leger; it wasn’t particularly close, but it felt like a warning to me. Besides, it was close enough to force us to move two kilometres (or clicks) away. We continued to probe, focusing our attention closer now in search of any signs of obvious enemy activity.

  The heat was crippling at times, and my Sierra Leone trick had to stop: I couldn’t justify the use of water to dampen the sock, so drinking hot water in extreme heat was a given – it was enough to make you vomit. It’s hard to explain how or why exactly, but the heat, more than anything else, made patrols tough. When not on foot, we were in the vehicles, which were like ovens; it was soul destroying, and that was before anything kinetic even occurred.

  Throughout our time in Marjah, I always felt that something was going to happen; the longer we stayed, the stronger that feeling became. Orders came from higher command that we were to probe into the centre of Marjah.

  The situation was not positive, and the mixture of excitement and fear was something that I was eager to release. My palms were sweaty, I was thirsty, and yet for some reason, I couldn’t wait to get into Marjah.

  We moved off slowly and purposefully, and it wasn’t long before the first IED was discovered. The mine clearing equipment we use was based on the same principals as the machines used by enthusiasts that search for old coins and metals.

  During our routine Op Barma drill, I recall saying to Kev, ‘This isn’t right.’ Locals were in short supply, and the place was deserted. The smell of cooking reminded me of the time of day: it was getting close to lunch, and that meant the heat would keep increasing.

  As we turned on to one of the tracks which led to the canal, I saw local villagers running – and they weren’t running towards us, they were running away. I looked at Kev, saying, ‘We are gonna get fuckin’ smashed here.’ Kev just laughed nervously. He knew I was right, and we both were just wondering where it would come from. Constantly scanning all around, all we could do was keep wondering what was going to happen.

  My excitement had very positively disappeared, and the fear kicked right in. My legs felt like jelly. I now wanted something to happen just so I could feel or think about something else. The adrenaline shift had happened: I was again at that point where the anticipation was worse than the actual event.

  Kev was my battle buddy on this mission. I trusted him implicitly and hoped that it wasn’t us getting hit first. ‘IED or small arms?’ I whispered to Kev. I didn’t have to wait long for my answer.

  Our patrol crawled onto the canal track and started to push slowly down the side of it. We had no choice; we were committed. Kev and I were in the second vehicle. The local villagers continued to run, and then the place erupted. Boom! Boom! Two deafening explosions were followed rapidly by small-arms fire and heavy machine guns. The familiar airburst of incoming RPGs rained debris and shrapnel all around us.

  Our patrol came to a grinding halt. Kev and I were shunted forward into the metal ledge in front of us, taking sustained and heavy fire from every direction. Smoke began to fill the air, making it hotter than before, if that were possib
le. Rounds started pinging off the top of our vehicle, and I remember seeing them zip through the antenna above me. Within seconds, the mounted guns on our WMIKs roared into action; the sound was unbelievable.

  Kev and I had immediately taken cover, ducking down inside the hatch. Looking up, I could see that the rounds were coming in from left to right, from my side of the wagon. They zipped past so quickly that it made all of my own movements feel like I was in slow motion. I couldn’t move fast enough.

  Our vehicles could not withstand gunfire for long, so we had to react. I popped back up and immediately got eyes on a Taliban fighter: he was just over thirty metres away, half right of me in a field to our left. It happened very quickly. I engaged him, firing seven shots – good banter material for later: why was I wasting ammo? The first two were hazy. I just fired in his general direction, but then I could see him clearly, and I fired until he dropped. I could see his baggy clothing, which was darker than the colour of the field that he was standing in. His face was long, exaggerated by a straggly black beard. The one thing that struck me was the fearlessness in him: he wasn’t looking directly at me, but he had to know the odds were he was about to die. He continued to fire elaborate bursts from his AK-47.

  I shouted half a fire control order, but it wasn’t anything like the ones that I had taught recruits to use. ‘Half right, field,’ was all that would come out. It was desperate, almost pathetic; I had the urge to point at the field. The noise was deafening, so words could not be heard. A hand signal seemed appropriate, and it got Kev’s attention. The Minimi gunner in the vehicle behind us started engaging more fighters in the same field.