My medics look deflated, and it doesn’t matter what uniform the soldier wore. His loss is shared by us all – it could have been any one of us lying there. We start the task of another clean-up. To be honest, I am getting sick of the sight and smell of blood. It has become too much of the norm. We sort through the medical kit quickly, and at the back of my mind, I know that the day is far from over.
With a patrol out on the ground, I move to the ops room to listen to their progress. From the net we soon learn that our call sign is already in trouble. The ICOM chatter reveals that the Taliban already has eyes on Du Boulay and his men. They continue to push forward, patrolling into an inevitable ambush. As crazy as it sounds, these are directives from higher command. They have air support which will allow enemy positions identified to be taken out, but it still doesn’t explain the madness of patrolling into the kill zone of a determined enemy.
The 16 Air Assault Brigade is unlike anywhere that I have served before. Hard, fast, and aggressive is how they train, and, ultimately, how they fight.
‘Contact wait out!’ bellows across the net. At that moment, it’s ‘game on’ again. The net is chaotic. Du Boulay is calling for CAS, and Capt. Wood is all over it; both Fast Air and Apache pilots are hungry for targets. Dangerously close to munitions being dropped, the platoon still hold their position. The Taliban stronghold is exactly that: as soon as they get eyes on the Apache they go to ground. As quick as they hide, they pop back up again, and now they are engaging our call sign from multiple firing positions. The firefight is relentless. Our ‘not here’ JTAC calls in fast air, and the sound of low-flying jets gets the nod of approval from everyone in our area.
The contact goes on for some time, so I start to plan for potential heat casualties. Two steps from the ops room door, I hear, ‘Man down’; the words are repeated several times, and the news of a casualty shocks no one.
Capt. Wood turns to me. ‘You all good, Channy?’
‘Who is it, and where are they hit?’ I say, asking Kev to message Monty when there is lull in the fighting.
Kev relays the answer as soon as he gets it. ‘Boydy, gunshot wound to the thigh.’
The Taliban have the platoon pinned down one and a half clicks away. In this situation, a fighting withdrawal is the only option for Monty and his crew. Boydy (Pte Boyd) is a big lad who will need to be carried back to Argyll.
The firefight continues; even the Apache does not subdue the insurgents housed in Shin Kalay.
After what seems like a lifetime, I see the lads carrying Boydy; every man on the stretcher is in turmoil. We get hands on our casualty, and I am relieved to see he is still smiling. He’s been shot straight through the shin, and the 7.62 mm round has come straight out the other side, embedding itself into the back of the thigh of the same leg.
With all my normal medical checks, I find no evidence to support that an artery was hit; Boydy’s gotten lucky today. The other lads are in desperate need of water, as the heat has turned this casevac into a marathon. Guzzling water by the litre, Monty looks exhausted, and he’s a fit soldier.
Boydy is surprisingly upbeat, and after assessment and treatment, he is stabilised. The only thing concerning him is a cigarette. In normal circumstances, I would hesitate, suggesting that he shouldn’t have one. His vital signs are good, and he has responded well to treatment, so I decide to let Boydy have his cigarette. Right or wrong, I say yes; medical professionals the world over will probably frown upon it, but standing here in shitsville Nad-e Ali at this very moment, I choose not to be the medical ‘cigarette police’. Boydy is a grown man who knows his own body, and his nerves are likely screaming for nicotine right now.
From a clinical perspective, Boydy’s oxygen saturation is high, and he has a steady blood pressure. No tourniquet is required with the minimal blood loss he has sustained. He’s doing well, all things considered. We prepare him for transportation, as the Chinook is inbound. Carrying him to the HLZ reaffirms what the guys have just faced getting him out of contact. Shots are fired at the incoming Chinook, and this sets the tone for the coming weeks. The RAF pilots aren’t deterred – it would take more than a couple of rounds to stop them coming in to get us, of that I am sure.
As Boydy and our dead soldier are lifted, stories begin to emerge of the events that just passed. Monty tells me that Abbie carried the stretcher along with the blokes all the way back into Argyll. When I ask her about it she plays it down, joking about Boydy’s weight. She’s done herself proud and looks for no recognition for it. Abbie is the sort of medic that every commander wants: she doesn’t moan, and she’s able to hold her own amongst the platoon. I’m lucky to have her to rely on. Looking around at my medics, I know I’m lucky to have them all. Each one of them would perform above and beyond anything ever asked of them.
My attention shifts across the room as Monty collapses onto the floor. I learn that he fell into a ditch during the withdrawal, his face contorted with the pain. His body is now rigid, and he’s unable to bend or move. By far the worst patient that I have to deal with, he is struggling to accept help and has no plans to make life easy for us. His lower back muscles have gone into spasm, caused by the fall itself or a combination of the fall and extraction under fire of Pte Boyd. Diazepam is my drug of choice this time, as it’s an enabler that works wonders very quickly. The spasms stop, and Monty relaxes onto a stretcher. He’ll be bedridden for at least two days.
The situation here is becoming truly unbearable. There are so many highs followed in quick succession by so many lows that it feels like one big fat test followed by another big fat test – and another and another.
For now, Monty is out of the game, and the boss asks me if we need to replace him. I learnt a fair amount from the physiotherapists that I’ve worked with in the past, so I tell the boss that I will work on Monty here in the PB.
‘Thanks, Sgt T,’ says Maj. Clark. He knows that Lt Du Boulay will have to take on the platoon alone; Cpl James Henderson will step up and assume Monty’s role. Hendy is an experienced section commander, so he’ll have no problem in taking up the slack for the platoon. Du Boulay is a quiet, unassuming officer; he has already proved his worth amongst his men, and they have warmed to him quickly. Tonight, he will move out for the first time without Monty.
A convoy coming from Lash will bring in some much-needed defensive stores, which will help fortify this small outpost ready for 3 Commando Brigade to take over. The convoy is travelling through the dark hours, a task which by now is fraught with danger. The force protection at Lash, made up of the remainder of B Company, will escort the convoy to the outskirts of Nad-e Ali, where they will be picked up by Lt Du Boulay and his men.
CHAPTER 6
PATROL BASE TEST
ICOM HAS STARTED PICKING UP STRANGE ACCENTS, INDICATING THAT foreign fighters are in our area. Intel soon identifies them as Pakistani and Chechen, which is a worrying development: these fighters will have travelled some distance to be here and will no doubt be very experienced in the killing fields, unlike the local farmers forced into battle by the Taliban. North of our location, a dead insurgent was found with an Aston Villa FC tattoo on his body; this worries us further, as fanatics of any religion are a danger to all societies, even if they are fans of our football.
Another Central Asian sunset comes and goes, and for some reason, there is no attack this evening. This is a welcome respite for the lads as they prepare to move out to meet the convoy. It’s Jen’s turn this time. I have gotten used to her working with me in the medical room. We have already dealt with our fair share of casualties, and our little team worked well. I could depend on Jen to take command if I were somewhere else on the base; after me, she is the most senior in our team.
As we settle in for the night, the familiar sounds of panic are heard over the net. Another shocker as the CLP heading into Nad-e Ali gets bumped by the Taliban. They were obviously waiting for them, hence the lack of incoming rounds on our base. The CLP now limps through the desert. It was like a ‘welcome to
the party’, Taliban style. Instead of seeing smiling, welcoming faces or locals waving flags, guests were treated to the thuds of RPGs, followed by the rattle of the PKM or .50 calibre. If a VIP is inbound, then a 107 mm rocket will be offered up as a side to the shit pie so tenderly prepared by the sweet hands of the insurgency in Helmand – all going on against the backdrop of small-arms fire. It’s like a never-ending musical score, but it wears thin after a while.
Dozing in the med room, I have learnt to sleep wherever and however I can. It won’t be long before I am on my feet again, so I take rest whenever it presents itself. Moments later, we hear that our call sign has met up with the logistics patrol. The attack on them is more of a firepower display, and it hasn’t created the number of casualties that the impressive sound would have you think. Timing has been on our side today. It looks like the Taliban didn’t expect a road move. After all, what sort of lunatics would consider using an IED-littered road after dark? Oh, that’s right, we are the very lunatics that did so.
The convoy arrives in the early hours of the morning. The lads, along with Jen, have been out all night. I jump up to give Davey a hand unloading the stores that have been sent. There are stacks of kit everywhere, as well as an overwhelming amount of ammunition. The crates are endless; someone in brigade HQ must have noticed that B Company might have moved up a couple of places on the priority board. Although the ammunition is welcome, it doesn’t stop any of us from chuntering as the heavy boxes are unloaded. Worse still, they must be broken down into some sort of usage system: issuing amounts per man, per patrol, per day, and per week.
I haven’t noticed until tonight just how stiff my body has become. Over a brew, I grimace at the stiffness while listening to the stories from the guys who have driven in with the supplies. They are from 13 Air Assault Regiment, Royal Logistics Corps (RLC). One soldier has been hit in the helmet by an RPG head which thankfully didn’t detonate. One of the luckiest men on the planet, his dented helmet has since been placed in the archives of the Imperial War Museum.
The Jocks are happy once more: a morale box has been sent. The package includes cigarettes, cans of Pepsi, and Irn-Bru, a carbonated drink that is a basic requirement in any Jock diet. Although tired from the long day, the blokes finally have something to be chirpy about, and for a few hours it feels like Christmas has come early.
With the days starting to merge into weeks, PB Argyll slowly starts to develop into a bona fide outpost. More sandbags are filled to reinforce the gun positions on the roofs. That done, we fill our so-called larder. Our newly stocked rations are supplemented with tinned treats in the shape of pasta and vegetables. The Afghan soldiers make flatbread on earth-fired makeshift ovens; their bread is some of the best I’ve tasted. It provides the perfect accompaniment to the new ration pack main meal of chicken tikka masala. British army rations are divided up by letter, and my favourite is the pack marked F. It offers steak and vegetables most evenings, and adding a bit of curry powder or Tabasco sauce will offer up a decent scoff. The chicken tikka is from menu C, which is new and also has the best breakfast meal. Pork sausage and beans, it is the only breakfast that I can stomach; the rest are disgusting. Everyone on base gets up earlier than usual to try to get hands on menu C.
The fresh supplies of ammunition are now being distributed to the different corners of the base; the men of B Company have continued their risky strategy of patrolling into Shin Kalay, and now they have added Luis Barr, another Taliban stronghold.
Tonight we have more supplies coming in via Chinook. This lift is essential, as it carries the vital replenishment of drinking water. The water that we wash with comes via a black water container (jerry can). The Afghans have found a local water source that is good enough to wash with; thankfully, they also take on the responsibility of collecting it daily.
Logistically, everyone in the base works solidly together. Flashheart’s Afghans are much more cohesive with him at the helm. He advises their commander, Lt Col Nazim, and so far he seems to achieve a fair amount with the small numbers that he has left. Flashheart continues to wear his two knee pads, just as some officers insist on wearing their sweat rags like cravats. It’s almost a sign of his quirkiness: if he takes them off now, he will get ripped up by the blokes even more. If you are going to be different, it’s best you stick with your chosen path. Meanwhile, the roads in and out of Nad-e Ali are getting worse. The convoy that delivered defensive stores just a few days ago gets hit hard on their way out. Several casualties are dealt with by our medical team back at Lash.
The Chinook drop will come in after midnight, so after last light the blokes prepare to patrol out to set up an outer cordon. This will at least stop anyone getting too close to the HLZ. Eagerly awaiting the resupp, Davey and his men prepare to deploy to the HLZ. Placing troops on the ground too early could potentially compromise the inbound Chinook and its crew. All seems well, which is usually never a good sign.
Sure enough, within seconds of the helo taking off from Camp Bastion, our interpreter, Naveed, sprints through to the ops room. Panicked, he says, ‘Sir, sir, I hear the Taliban commander say that they will attack the helicopter tonight.’
‘What the fuck!’ Capt. Wood perfectly expresses exactly what we are all thinking.
The interpreter relays more. ‘Through the ICOM I can hear a commander giving orders to a fighter who already has a full view of the landing site and its surrounding area. He is talking about a special fighter for the helicopter.’ This is consistent with the Pakistan and Chechen accents from our intelligence source. Naveed continues, ‘He is in position already, and they tell him to shoot the helicopter out of the sky.’
My throat is dry as I move next door to inform Davey and Monty about the story that is unfolding. Davey hurriedly gets the QRF together, as well as any other soldiers who are free. Sgt Maj. Tony Mason of the RI steps forward, volunteering himself and his men to assist the effort. In addition to the RI’s task of mentoring the kandak, Tony has been working with Davey to man all of the outgoing 51 mm mortar missions. Tony has already earned the title as the calmest bloke in contact over the net, and his small team is a very welcome addition to the base – tonight more so than ever.
With no time to identify the firing point, the OC sends up all the intelligence gathered, hoping that brigade HQ will call off the Chinook until the morning. Undeterred, brigade staff weighs up the risk and deems it safe enough for our resupp to happen. I wonder what on earth we will do if the airframe is shot out of the sky: the fighting platoon is already out, and their cordon is covering the most-probable firing points. The kandak under the control of Flashheart has also deployed to cover more ground. That said, the enemy are set up somewhere with full eyes on the HLZ.
The boss turns to me, asking if we have the capability to deal with multiple casualties should the worst happen. I reassure him that we have set up other points outside of the CAP as casualty collection points (CCPs) so that I can triage correctly and prioritise our patients. We have stocked these points with the kit we have. Depending upon the severity of the injuries, we should be good; it isn’t ideal, but it is what it is – and it’s the best we can do. I have identified team medics within the company, and I mention that I might use these guys to man the other clearing station for less-serious injuries, if the tactical situation allows. Maj. Clark nods his head, looking as reassured as he can possibly be, considering the now-difficult circumstances.
The Apache gun ship arrives on station; it circles like a hawk searching for any dangers or signs of life visible only from the sky. Unfortunately, the Apache will have to be reactive this time, as a well-dug-in position will show no ground sign. A decent shooter will only reveal himself at the last safe moment. As the moment plays out, we can still hear the Taliban commander in direct communication with the insurgent who waits patiently in his hiding place.
Everyone’s on edge, nerves frayed as we wait for our resupp to come in. We can only plan for so many scenarios; worrying about every possible eve
ntuality will see you in an early grave, for sure. The plan is in place, so we roll with what we have – if you think about all of it too much, you will never lift your head from your pillow.
I deploy out to the HLZ with Davey, and we sit in the dark waiting for the sound of the Chinook engines. Out of nowhere, the airframe swoops in, hard and fast. The crew works like crazy to unload the water.
Fewer than twenty-three seconds down, the bird lifts with the shooter in position.
Immediately we hear the command, ‘Fire now! Fire now!’
Suddenly, just as the Chinook is airborne, a bright streak flashes through the darkness. A rocket has been fired. It flies straight past the window of the pilot’s seat.
For a second I am numb, mouth breathing because I am unable to inhale enough air.
Tracer rounds from small arms almost instantly follow the rocket. The small-arms rounds look like tiny glow-in-the-dark insects or fireflies as they zip by.
The pilot shunts the huge airframe forward nervously. Its huge engines soar as the bird lifts. The Chinook narrowly escapes another rocket before flying off into the darkness.
On the ground, the sound of some muffled ‘woo hoos’ carry through the empty night air.
‘Thank fuck for that Ham. Let’s get this shite back in!’ Davey shouts.
When we return to the ops room, the boss and Capt. Wood are sitting at the desk, chuckling. It turns out the Taliban commander has ordered the execution of the special shooter who missed his target, the helo.
Naveed translates the commander’s last radio transmission. The insurgents still use medieval, sometimes barbaric means to achieve their aim. Stories of how the mujahideen treated captured Russian officers were every man’s worst nightmare.
Just as the subject crops up, as if by magic, Flashheart appears in the doorway. Capt. Wood tells him that if he is taken with elements of the kandak he will be sodomised by his captors. Looking hesitantly around the room, Flash smirks and then adds, ‘That won’t be happening any time soon, people.’
Battleworn: The Memoir of a Combat Medic in Afghanistan Page 14
