by Dawn French
She looks intently at Silvia’s face for signs of any reaction.
As always. Nothing.
She ploughs on.
… but there’s no point harping on about it, the damage is done and know what? She has survived it. We all have.
Maybe I should tell you why I’m in a tent, which is in fact a makeshift medic centre, before I’m moved back to Camp Bastion soon. Couple of weeks ago, our unit were deployed temporarily to the Garmsir District Centre, as part of an operation I’m not allowed to name in this letter. Except to say we were heading into difficult territory. Pongos had gone ahead supported by Afghan troops, to distract and bait Taliban we knew were there. Our orders were to duck in a day behind, and take command of a cell headquarters identified inside a particular cluster of mud-baked compounds. When the day came, I was given a terp to marhsall, who was pretty green. This was his first op out of interpreter training, and he was shaking. Called Ajani. Twenty-two years old. Bit younger than me. Looks like a proper jinglie, and don’t get all arsy and leftie about us calling the locals that. It refers to their vehicles which are more often than not adorned with shiny jingly-jangly stuff, and make loads of noise, so wind yer leftie liberal neck in!
Anyway, Ajani is a small bloke, his uniform is far too big for him and he stood there holding his field kit and his rifle and looked like someone’s eleven-year-old brother. His kit is bigger than he is, and so is his bottle. I could see he was having trouble controlling his jitters, but I could also see that he wanted to, so massive respect goes out to the little fella for his big courage.
It’s tough for the interpreters out here, some of their friends and neighbours begrudge that they work for the British forces. It’s too much of a head-fuck for a lot of them, and they regard the terp as a traitor or something else dodgy. They even receive death threats sometimes. Crazy. I mean, this guy speaks Pashtu and Italian as well as English, he’s really bright. We had plenty of gags about how he was the only one in the corps who could order a curry or a pizza or fish and chips in the local lingo, and get away with it.
Anyway, fact is Ajani – dead bright, but dead green. I took to him. We shared our fags, and yes Silvia, I am smoking again, but frankly, I don’t think you can hold that against me. Ajani and I had a good swapping system set up. Three of his local fags for each one of my B&H’s. You have to have good lungs to cope with the Afghan tabs, they taste like the bloody camel shit they are but hey, a smoke’s a smoke in hell.
Eventually, it was time to board the cab (helicopter to you), which was already fully loaded with various provisions and ammunition freight. So much so that we were all jammed in tight, and I found myself crammed in on the starboard side, able to see out through the freight-hook hole. The Chinook shakes you about a fair bit on the flight, but I was aware my right leg was going hell for leather, and when I checked it out, I realized it was Ajani’s left leg, shoved up tight next to mine in the scrum, that was shaking like a leaf. Poor sod. I pushed my leg harder against his to steady him and he looked at me. The fear on his little brown mug and the bewilderment in his wide eyes is something I won’t forget.
Although I have actually forgotten a lot else about that day and following night. It’s all hazy memories for me, some are flooding back at odd times, but a lot is gone. I’ll probably never remember now.
Through the hole in the cab deck, I could see the Afghani terrain below, in the late afternoon sun. Whole place was drenched in pink. Female colours everywhere. Looks like a girl’s country. But it so isn’t. In fact, any time you see women, you wouldn’t know that’s what they are, they’re so covered up. Can only see flashes of dark eyes through the letter box in the headgear on the odd occasion they pass us on a street patrol, or perhaps if we see them scurrying off when we enter a compound.
So anyway, the flight was pretty uneventful, no one bothers to speak as the racket in the cab is too loud. I just kept looking out through the freight-hook hole and I could sometimes see the silhouette of a ’helo whooshing along the ground when the sun was out from the clouds behind us, throwing the shadow down. Looked like a giant dragonfly in the distance. But it was us. Heading into trouble.
As we descended, the cab filled with dust and sand whipped up by the rotor. The dust is like pink talcum powder. Gets in your eyes and mouth. As the stern ramp opened, we all grabbed our kit and piled out. Could hardly see anything for the amount of dust in my eyes, so knelt down, face averted, ’til the roar of the rotors diminished. Once the noise abated, we could see again, and what we saw was a vast expanse of bollocking nothing under a baking hot sun.
We had been dropped a good 8km from the target and had a long hot walk ahead into the night, then set up a makeshift harbour position, to rest for a few hours before a dawn assault. Thank God the ground was fairly flat, but it was still muggy and we were all carrying plenty of weight, Osprey, cot vest, 360 rounds of 5.56mm, 9mm pistol, SA80 A2 rifle, 6 x 9mm mags, grenades, extra batteries for the GPS gear, bayonet, dagger and daysack with six litres of water. Easily eighty pounds of weight. My own oppos, including Geordie Jim, the medic, a bloody giant of a brick shithouse, were having trouble keeping up straight, never mind spindly Ajani with his trembling matchstick legs. He could have buckled at any time, and he was carrying half the gear, but he kept going.
The sudden quiet was palpable. Weird. Heavy. Only the sound of boots and movement and heavy breathing. We walked for hours into the darkness, eight of us, excluding the medic and Ajani. As junior Capt, it is ultimately my job to use the maps and decide where to stop, which was a rocky outcrop about 3km from the target, known as Red 1.
Kit off, settle down. Was cold. Got v. cold soon as the sun set. No fires, too risky, but cigs allowed, under cupped hands and only local tobacco. Vague shapes huddling together, back to back, facing out in a 360˚ circle, ARD. Hushed chat and continual smokes. Every other word is an expletive. From everyone. No one speaks without swearing. At all. Eyes adapt slowly, and starlight becomes v. bright gradually as vision learns the night. We ate dry rations, and drank water. No brew due to no fire. Got a few restless hours of kip, during a 50/50 watch, but circumstances kept us mostly alert.
About two hours before dawn, lit up for the last time before moving out, and we convened for the final briefing. I give Ajani one of my cigs, for later. He gives me 3 of his. I drew out the plan in the sand with a stick. We’d already had the detailed briefing back at base, but just as a rudimentary reminder. One headtorch only to illuminate it. Keep the light low to the ground. Definite feeling of heaviness. The numbers aren’t good. Recce reports reckoned about fifty Taliban with AKs, probably. Eleven of us. With the addition of Irish 1 as backup. We’re pretty much fucked. But shit, we are professional Marines and it’s in precisely these circs that we prevail. Come on, you wankers, let’s see your steel.
I know how important it is that I don’t waver. I’m in fucking charge. Fuck. Think. We need to secure that compound with as little damage to civilians as poss, but there will be innocents there. That’s how Taliban work. Using local jinglies as cover. You rarely get sight of them, they are like fucking ghosts, but they are a ferocious and fearless enemy, and tactically astute in theatre. All I have to know, and all I have to let my men know, is that we are more so. We are more than them, in every respect. And that, luckily, is what I do genuinely believe.
So, it’s kit up and move out, stealthily. It’s still pretty much sub-zero temperature, so the walk is welcome if only to stay warm. I see that Ajani, like me, is sporting a new beard. He looks puffy and tired. I can’t see me, but I bet I do too. Funny how fear translates into fatigue. And how quickly the adrenaline converts it back into energy. As we push on, I remember with every step, just how important it is to be fit. In mind and body.
I look around and see the faces of these men, each one of whom I would, at that moment, die for. I would. I would take a bullet for any one of them. We are a team. These people are my family. At that precise moment, I felt that I belonged in that family more t
han I’ve ever felt that I belonged anywhere. We were together in every way, comrades hardwired to our most basic instincts, which on that morning were mainly about survival, guile and … well, fuck it, yes, I’ll say it … love. These were my brothers, and I loved them as such. Still do.
You wouldn’t get it. No one gets it unless they’ve been here. Grandad might, I suppose he was a pongo. This place makes you feel stuff you wish you never had to, but which you know for sure you’ll never feel as strongly ever again. I have never known as surely before that I am so completely heard and supported. My home is here. Not sure that’s right, but am sure it’s true. We all knew it. Unsaid. Wholly felt.
Eventually, after an hour and a half or so, and still in darkness, we were nearing Red 1. I knew for a couple of reasons. Firstly, we were all communicating through personal headsets, and the recce tp were guiding us in, plus we had our maps and GPS ace, Lance Corporal Cunty Kevin Hodge. Sorry to use that word, know what you think of it, but I’m afraid that is his official name for the simple reason that he is one. I can’t tell you why he is but if you knew, you would agree. For a man with highly questionable morals, he is a brilliant navigator, trained with the Brigade Recce, and it’s in moments like these he comes into his own, and all prior bestial indiscretions are forgiven …
The other clue to our approaching the target was that we started to notice small huddled groups of villagers leaving, scurrying past us in the darkness, going the opposite way. Fleeing, in effect. This is always a significant combat indicator. The initial fear of their approach is a bum-tightener. Are they friend? Are they foe? We make out that there are children amongst them, which makes us feel slightly easier, but the fact is, out here, a thirteen year old will as soon lob a grenade at you as anyone, so you never totally relax. The stress is prolonged and incessant, even sleeping is a taught experience. It’s hard to explain. So I won’t. Ajani spoke to the locals quietly but firmly, ushering them past and telling them to keep moving. Which was exactly what I was saying to my unit. Urging them towards what was in effect, inevitable attack.
Not only was there immediate danger from Talibs, there is always danger all around from IEDs. Booby traps can be absolutely anywhere, so with every step you are on the lookout for telltale signs which are obviously not easy to observe at night. Hard to see tripwires or disturbed ground where pressure pads might be. You just have to wrestle the fear into submission and keep walking. Every step a new courage.
I was already feeling knackered, both from the physical exertion and from maintaining that amount of alertness continually. A weird thing happens where your senses become so attuned that instincts you didn’t know you had start to kick in, and I had learned by then to pay attention to my instincts, even if I didn’t understand them. It’s hard to admit that I was putting the safety of my call sign at the mercy of my new-found and hard-to-explain instincts. But, that’s all I could do, so I did, and we pushed on, in the hope that my senses were going to serve us all well.
Just as the first streaks of daylight started to threaten, we trudged alongside a three-metre-wide irrigation canal and on the other side of it, I could smell there was a field of poppies. Couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there. White poppies, tall. The heads of the poppies are scored for cultivation and you can smell the opium. It’s a sweet slightly sickly smell, especially at night. Unmistakable. As that wafted past us, we came to the brow of a small hill with the irrigation culvert on our right, from which we had our first sighting of Red 1.
The outline in the half-light depicted two definite compounds, gated and surrounded by fifteen-foot-high walls. It would be a challenge to gain entry, but we’d made our plans and were ready. We had backup from the Irish regiment and the ANA who had gone ahead for the recce a couple of days before. They were sitting tight, waiting for us to kick off. We had no time to lose, because of the light.
What happened next was so quick that I only have a jumble in my head about it. All I remember now is that I led off down the other side of the hill towards Red 1, and I was making good headway. Ajani was right behind me, and I was flanked by Bodger McLean and Thumbs Burke. In the buzz of it all, I couldn’t believe that my brain was hovering around the thought that this assault was being fronted by an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman! Crazy, isn’t it, that I could consider that alongside everything else, but I did.
We had hoped the Talibs weren’t aware we might be approaching, but when we saw the civvies leaving, it was obvious we weren’t going to be the shock we’d hoped for. What none of us were prepared for was their utter readiness. As we advanced from over the hill, we were only a few paces towards them when we took fire. I told the lads to get down, and sent a TIC (Troops in Contact) report over the net, yelling ‘Contact! Contact!’ and ‘Go! Go!’ We moved forward fast, running across open, killing ground. Everything had gone from quiet and stealthy to loud and shouting, whilst under such heavy attack. We had to avoid being pinned down.
I remember realizing how close we suddenly were to Red 1 when I saw that the Talib tracer rounds were passing over our heads, and lighting up way past where we were. I could see all the green specks flashing in the dark sky behind us as the bases of the bullets exploded and lit up. It could have been a really good Bonfire Night display if it wasn’t lethal. Meanwhile the hail of fire we were running into was full on. There is an unforgettable crack-thump sound when bullets fly by. Lead wasps, Cunty Kevin calls them, and that’s right. There is a popping sound and the air warps and sucks as they whizz past. You hope.
All I know is that I was suddenly on the ground, clutching my leg and Ajani was somehow in front of me. I saw his face because at the exact moment that a touch of first light hit it and lit him up, an enemy round hit him in the head and as his skull shattered, sending shards of bone and brain and blood and hair exploding out every which way like a dandelion head, he slumped forwards on to me, smothering me with his pumping dark blood and his ruptured flesh. Clumps of hard soil and rocks were thwacking me from either side as the earth around me was being pounded by their 762 rounds, slamming into the ground. My mouth, ears and eyes were full of dust and thick glinting blood. Tasted like steel, like nothing I’d ever tasted before, like metal and bacon together. I couldn’t tell what was my blood and what was his. Bastard. All I knew was the pain.
I try to shove him off the top of me; he’s heavy for a small bloke. Ajani – who was dead bright and dead green, and is now just dead. I can hear muffled sounds and I can hear pounding as boots stomp on ground around me. Are these my lads? Or ragheads? Are the fucking Taliban right on us and about to finish me off? I can’t see. I reach down to my right thigh to draw my 9mm but I am getting weaker with every second and I can’t do it.
Is this what dying feels like? Am I going to kick it here, in this dirty shithole, leaving my call sign with no leadership? I hear reassuring sounds of Geordie Jim telling me to keep still, and he’s doing something tight to my leg, he’s injecting me. I hear the sounds of a helicopter – and that was it, I lost all consciousness.
Turns out the rest of my unit got the backup they needed from 1 Royal Irish, the ANA, and two Apaches and pushed on to take Red 1 with only Ajani as a fatality. Besides a couple of the Talibs who copped it. Rest taken prisoner … Some injuries, like me, but not too shabby, considering.
So now, here I am, patched up, drugged up, and waiting to be casevaced to Bastion. Then there’ll be some decisions made about what needs to happen next – I expect I’ll be taken to Birmingham or somewhere like that to recover. Need to know exactly how serious it is before plan is made. Looks like a shattered knee to me. But what the cock do I know?
Well, what I do know for sure is that life is precious, and I’m going to savour every living moment of it. And I’m going to do that in the name of courageous Ajani Sahar, and courageous Dad and courageous Cassie. Not you. You wouldn’t have the first clue about courage, or what matters, Silvia. You proved that. When I was in and out of consciousness in the Chinook, with m
y legs splinted together, and my own blood spilling down the deck plates to my face, I thought about my family and how they would cope if this was it for me.
I knew then, very clearly, that it wouldn’t matter to you because you haven’t known me for so long now. Would you even find out? And if you did, would it just be like someone snuffing out a candle in the next room? Can’t see it, doesn’t really matter, doesn’t affect you? Like that? Well, here’s the thing I knew in that moment Silvia. I don’t care what you think any more. My anger about you and your shit has eaten me up, you pushed me away and that push got me all the way here, but no longer am I going to let you be in charge of what I think about me.
I am going to survive this. I am going to survive you. Even if it meant coming to this hellhole to learn it. I now know it. I do not need you. I do not love you. I no longer look for your love back. Keep it, and shove it up your arse.
There’s dust everywhere here. It’s the teller of everything. Weather, war, everything. I’ve had it everywhere, eyes ears nose mouth … It’s even inside my shit and my fucking socks at the end of the day. But as I lie here now. Finally. I think it’s settling. Settling. Settled.
