Battleworn: The Memoir of a Combat Medic in Afghanistan

by Chantelle Taylor

  Back to my bed space in quick time and positive that my roll mat is getting thinner by the day, I place my weapon down by the side of my bivvy bag. The OMLT had the sense to bring camp cots with them, but the rest of us continue to sleep rough on the floor.

  Laying my head for a couple of hours, I wake only for my death stag on the radio. After last night’s incident, I will patrol into the district centre of Nad-e Ali with the boss tomorrow. We must identify a secondary HLZ, large enough for our Chinooks to land and manoeuvre safely.

  I am glad to escape the PB for a couple of hours. I do understand my position here – Maj. Clark needs medical information at a moment’s notice, and with no doctor, that leaves me to do it, which means I am stuck in the confines of the PB. Our base is small, so a short trip away is most welcome. The size of the PB creates other problems too: the Taliban need only fire in our general direction to know they will hit something. This is worrisome indeed and constantly in the back of all of our minds. Perhaps a short trip will clear my head, helping me to stop waiting for the next attack. Nevertheless, events in Marjah taught me to be very careful what I wish for: I was initially excited about that foray too.

  Plus, we have lately been fighting in places where historical sites still stand. Places of worship or the run-down ruins of what were once great forts, these sites are sacred to the indigenous population but fraught with danger for non-natives of the region. This brings us into ‘military tourism’ to a certain extent. I have developed a distinct dislike for the military tourists of the world. Military tourism is usually undertaken by the civilian element of government-backed projects, and my dim view on the combat tourist came about through witnessing civilians in flowing flowery skirts wearing unsuitable strappy sandals deploying out on trips to the Qala-e-Bost Arch on the outskirts of the provincial capital (Lash). This eleventh-century arch marks the primary route into what was the ancient military citadel town of Bost. The visits to the arch served no tactical or reconstructive purpose, but they did create the perfect combat tourist photo opportunity. This ‘tourism’ has become a pet peeve of mine, as well as another subject that I have become all too ready to voice my opinion on. This is not without reason: it’s usually the resident infantry company that provides the outer security cordon for these little jaunts. Personnel of any description should never be deployed on the ground unless there is a specific tactical purpose or mission; I include hearts and minds in those missions.

  These thoughts flit through my mind while I consider the prevailing logistics of our PB. The situation on the roads around Nad-e Ali is making any potential road moves out of here impossible. I realise that movement by air and under the cover of darkness is the only plausible way that B Company will get back to ‘Lash Vegas’. That 107 mm rocket got very close, and the Taliban’s ability to buy surface to air missiles (SAMs) is a reality that makes this move far from attractive.

  As normal routine presses on, non-battle injury and sickness have become prevalent, and this has started to deplete our numbers with the same gusto as our enemy is doing. Diarrhoea of some sort is presenting itself in everyone; and this is often accompanied by dehydration and fatigue.

  Foot problems are the most crippling, as the blokes’ boots are sodden with water. Using the irrigation channels as cover during contact means that many of the platoon are knee-deep in water while fighting. Insect bites are becoming infected, and the list of maladies goes on and on. Suffice to say that my sick parade is growing on a daily basis.

  I make an off-the-cuff remark to one of the section’s 2IC about the possibility of swapping the Jocks on the wall and roof gun teams with soldiers in the fighting platoon. This will offer the guys suffering most some much-needed rest. Every man is working as hard as the next, just in different ways.

  My suggestion gets back to Monty, who’s not best pleased. I overhear him griping the section 2IC for mentioning it. In hindsight, I wish that I mentioned it directly to Monty in private; however, my regret quickly turns to anger when I hear Monty brief one of his blokes up for coming sick. I hear him further explain that the guys must see him prior to coming to see me in the aid post.

  ‘Tell me that I didn’t just hear that,’ I say to a stunned Abbie. Jumping up off my seat, I fly through to my medical room where Monty is resting.

  The situation is not unlike the times when I would argue with my brothers as a kid, and I hope it doesn’t end the same way that they often would: with me stabbed in the temple with a fork or choked out for twenty seconds or so in the passageway. At home, being the youngest of five was a dangerous job – especially if you had a smart mouth like mine.

  Now I confront Monty as I walk through the door. He rightfully defends the command of his platoon, just as I defend my suggestion to alleviate the fact that the blokes were in shit state. With two strong characters like Monty and me, it’s never going to be a smooth ride.

  As always, I am the first to get my point across. ‘Be sure to let me know if any fucker needs my help when they’re bleeding out, Monty. Or are you going take control of our wounded from your fuckin’ pit space, along with your own bad back?’

  ‘Fuck off, and get yourself te fuck, Channy,’ Monty angrily replies.

  As I’ve said, Monty and I aren’t dissimilar in character, which makes for an interesting ten minutes. B Company relies heavily on us both, and the pressure is starting to show. Davey walks into the room, looks at us, shakes his head, and walks straight back out. It’s clear that he is disappointed to see Monty and me squabbling like two private soldiers.

  I head out of the CAP, still angry. Nothing has been resolved. Everyone heard the fracas, but no one got involved, and no one says anything.

  Slumping down onto my roll mat now, I remember a conversation that Monty and I had no more than a week ago. It was the same day that we lost one of the kandak soldiers. Monty came into the CAP, only to find the place covered in blood and me up to my neck in shit. He had been out on patrol when the incident happened, so he missed most of it. I made the decision to stop my team’s work on the Afghan soldier after we had exhausted much of our already depleted medical kit.

  When Monty arrived, he asked me at what point I would decide to stop working on him or one of his men. He wanted to know how much time we would spend exhausting ourselves. Realising that it was something that I hadn’t even thought about, I explained to him that although we weren’t kitted out as well as Lash, as a team we would keep going until they were on the helicopter. I truly meant what I said: for the sake of morale, both our own and that of the troops left behind, we would keep going. Clearly, though, if half a body or a head is missing, the unenviable decision is made for you.

  Bearing all this in mind, I walk back into the medical room. I look at Monty, knowing that we are in this together. He knows that, as medics, we will go as far as we can for him and his men; I know that they regard us as their own.

  I look at Monty now, trying my best to stay semi-serious. We both start laughing.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ Monty says.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ I reply. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. I just made a passing comment, that’s all.’

  We are a solid team, and everything is running smoothly. Supporting each other in everything is a must. I rely heavily on Monty to keep my medics safe out on the ground, and he relies on me to keep his men alive and healthy.

  The only good to come out of the argument is that we both blow off a fair amount of steam. Our argument has emptied the aid post, and I am glad that no one else chose to get involved. When you are attached to the infantry, it’s very easy to turn up and make up the numbers, but my regiment didn’t deploy medics like that. When numbers are so small, every soldier must add value to any given situation.

  Understanding tactics, both good and bad, and understanding where you as an individual fit in the group setting is crucial. We are trained to add value. Being the expert in my field, I have to make sure that I never lose control of my own mission.

 
In this instance, Monty and I are both right; our miscommunication has just confused things, as miscommunications always do. It’s like when you send a text or email, and you hit ‘send’ before explaining exactly what you mean. When you read it back to yourself, you realise that you sound like one of the crazies off that TV show Jeremy Kyle, but it’s too late: the message is out there, and whoever you’ve sent it to is already reading it.

  Half an hour passes, and all is forgotten. All is well between Monty and me. I am sure of this because, much to my disgust, Michael Buble is back haunting my speakers.

  Our biggest test is yet to come, and none of us has the luxury of foresight. My bivvy is calling, and I am ready for sleep. The night zips by, and morning sees our call sign prepare to move out to find the possible secondary HLZ.

  As I exchange banter with Flashheart about his dual knee pad action, I retrieve my own knee pad from 2Lt Du Boulay. Flashheart’s character lends itself to life in a PB. He has inspired a new test that I will perform on potential new friends – or my future husband – the PB test. I sell the idea to Capt. Wood, who takes it on as his own. The test is one question followed by a yes or no answer; you can wean out the idiots, saving time and sometimes money.

  The question is simply this: would I as an individual spend any length of time with him or her in a small isolated PB? Flashheart manages to scrape by the reasoning; firstly by his double knee pads, and, more importantly, because of his red iPod. Character goes a long way in the military: those who have it tend to succeed wherever they go.

  As we deploy out of PB Argyll, the men of B Company seem to have found their second wind. Jokes are shared and the blokes berate each other as the patrol steps off. It’s amazing what a day’s rest can do for morale. We patrol through the district centre, making our way past the police station that housed us that first night.

  Not wanting to miss an opportunity to mock, Kev reminds me of my resourceful spooning of our interpreter to keep warm on the roof.

  ‘Good one, Kev,’ young Ferris says, applauding Kev’s vigilance. We all laugh.

  It’s hard to believe that we were ever here. That night seems a world away… so much has happened since then.

  As we approach the open space, it appears large enough to manoeuvre a Chinook. I soon notice that there is not a person or dog in sight. Nad-e Ali is completely deserted.

  Discarded drug paraphernalia is strewn around the ground where I am about to steady my knee, and I am very thankful for my knee pad. Maybe this warrants Flashheart’s two! With used needles all over the ground around us, I warn the guys behind me to be careful with the placement of their hands.

  We settle down in all-round defence as the boss and Davey get busy marking grids and taking photos. We don’t hang about: the trip back to Argyll is quicker than the trip out. Upon our return, the Afghan special ops team and their mentors are busy preparing to patrol out for the first time. The boss orders the PB to stand to, acting as a QRF for the Afghans and their mentors.

  The small group deploys out, heading south. Within ten minutes, their patrol gets whacked. ‘Contact, wait out!’ booms across the net. As the firefight gathers pace, we can hear worrying dialogue over the net. The shouting of the Afghans drowns out British accents. Our interpreter tries to relay but can’t make out the entire conversation; he mentions that two of the Afghan team may have turned their weapons on the entire patrol, including the two British soldiers.

  ‘What the fuck?!’ Davey looks at the boss, his face reddening with anger.

  A British voice comes over the net, and we hear it clearly this time. ‘Topaz zero alpha, returning to your location now with two hostile prisoners. Out.’

  A crowd gathers as the soldiers return to the PB. The two detainees have been disarmed, and their Afghan comrades drag them in. The team look dishevelled and shocked by the drama that has unfolded. The Brit mentors choose to house the two in the back of separate snatch vehicles. The boss is quickly debriefed about the intent of our guests. Although operating independently on the ground, the team still came under the charge of Maj. Clark when housed in the PB. With nowhere else to secure the two prisoners, the snatch Land Rovers are backed up to the outside wall of the aid station; that way, we can keep an eye on them medically. They have plenty of ventilation and water – albeit in a confined space, perhaps a little too much ventilation, as we would later discover.

  So the story unfolds that during the initial stages of the ambush, the two sympathisers turned their weapons on the entire team. A struggle ensued, and, thankfully, they were overpowered by the rest of the patrol.

  Later in the day, one of the mentors asks if I will check on one of the prisoners who sustained injuries during the initial struggle.

  ‘No worries,’ I say. ‘I will just grab my kit.’ I climb up onto the roof of the vehicle so I can get eyes on through the hatch at the top.

  The mentor opens the hatch and peers in, and I notice a look of shock on his face. ‘Gen, gen, gen, no fucking way!’ he says, sounding completely puzzled.

  For a moment, I am inclined to think that the prisoner has somehow died. But then, as I take a look myself, I see that the back of the vehicle is empty – the prisoner is missing! While I take in the magnitude of what this means, I notice my yellow sharps container still sitting in its position on the side of the vehicle. So a member of Afghan special ops, who is also a Taliban sympathiser, is on the loose in the base, but everything is okay because my multipurpose yellow sharps bucket is still intact. The things that I think about at times are often hard to comprehend.

  All positions around the base are informed, and everyone goes into a state of heightened alert. Every man has his weapon closer than before, and movement is kept to a minimum. Any complacency that may have crept in has diminished. Once informed, the kandak commander goes ballistic, demanding that his men seek out the soldier who gave the escapee help with the breakout.

  The tension between the Afghans and Jocks is creating an atmosphere of suspicion and mistrust. The base is supposed to be a safe haven for us all – well, as safe as it gets in Nad-e Ali. The escapee is more than likely armed with intent to kill; he will wreak havoc in the camp. A manhunt is under way, and no stone is left unturned; every inch of PB Argyll is covered.

  An hour goes by before an Afghan soldier is found harbouring the escapee. The rapid response from Lt Col Nazim and his men leave no doubt as to where their loyalties lie. The prisoner is found and dealt with in a fashion that is not acceptable in our military. Fortunately for him, they hand him over to us, so he is lucky this time.

  I check him over to confirm that he is okay. Looking into his eyes, I notice a glazed, almost vacant gaze. It’s like he can see me but doesn’t want to see me; he is shaking and breathing heavily. I have never seen this before: he’s alive physically but lifeless in his soul. He makes me feel numb. Pausing for a moment, I ask our interpreter to tell the soldier that everything will be okay. I give him some water while I check for signs of torture. The Afghans have thrown him about a bit; nothing major, though.

  If we want to become too interested in their personal conduct, we might do well to start looking at the treatment given to the dancing (or ‘chai’) boys that they keep. It’s tradition in Afghanistan for the men of the house to keep boys as sex slaves, and I have seen many on our travels. It is a cultural thing that I have no desire to accept or understand.

  In the past few years, there have been several incidents in which Afghan soldiers have turned on British and American troops. Thankfully, the bond between the ANA and the coalition is growing in the main, and the plan to train more Afghans is ever developing.

  Orders come from higher command that the whole Afghan special ops team is to be extracted; they will move later tonight and won’t be replaced.

  The rest of the day is relatively quiet, but fresh reports about future Taliban intentions keep the chatter alive in the ops room. They are desperate to bring down one of our helicopters, and ICOM reveals that they will targ
et the next resupp. Working out that our moves by road have all but ceased, they are quick to change their tactics.

  Davey plans to stretch the outer cordon further; our helicopters won’t stop coming, so the threat is always looming. The extraction of the mentors and their team goes by without incident.

  A night of unbroken sleep looms, so I put my iPod in, and off I go. I awake at first light, refreshed. Stand-to follows, and then, with my morning routine over, I make use of some quiet time. Taking my turn on the satellite phone, I call home.

  ‘Hello?’ Mum answers.

  ‘Hi, Mum, it’s me… just checking in.’

  ‘Everything okay?’ she asks in her soft Scottish accent.

  ‘All good, Mum, just counting down the days here.’ I don’t tell her where I am or what I am doing. Sitting on the tailgate of one of the WMIKs guarding the corner, it’s a relief just to hear her voice.

  Young Jock Gaz Wilson is manning the .50 calibre on top of the WMIK. Gaz is a junior soldier. He had a tough time growing up, losing his mum at a young age. What amazes me is his lack of bitterness; he lives life to the full and embraces everything. He cares for his younger brother and tries to do best by him. Soldiers like Gaz make me miss home, and I am always grateful for the family that I have.

  Gaz observes a group of fighting-age males and relays the information to Scotty Pew on the roof.

  I get to my third or fourth sentence before the .50 calibre lets rip above me. Very much aware that my mum is on the other end of the line, I say, ‘Love you, Mum,’ and then hang up in haste.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ I yell as I scramble into cover before making the mad dash along the wall receiving incoming – I have to get to my body armour and helmet. The rattle from the huge gun is deafening; it makes my teeth chatter.

  I wish that I’d chosen a different moment to call home. God only knows what my mum must be thinking. But this is how it is. You are forced to try to create a normal routine in the prevailing environment. Situations can go from nothing to everything in seconds, so you make the call home whenever you can.