Battleworn (10 page)

As a female soldier, I recognised early on that medicine is possibly the only way in which a woman can get away with interacting with the men of this culture, specifically in this country. Males run these societies, and women are regarded as second-class citizens. I have many friends in a variety of cultures, and I struggle to understand some of their traditions as much as I expect they do mine, but Afghanistan under the rule of the Taliban encourages systematic abuse, torture, and the absolute maltreatment of women. That is something that I neither accept nor comprehend, and I never will.

The injured men don’t want to touch our hands, and we don’t force our personal beliefs upon them. We accept the cultural differences, and as soldiers, our mission will always come before any personal gripe – this is why we fare so well. Medicine has broken down barriers the world over, and as yet, it is the only thing to do so. After a quick medical assessment, I leave Abbie and Sean to crack on, and go to initiate the nine-liner to HQ. It’s a luxury to have such high-calibre medics in my team; they make my job seem easy at times.

Kev relays the nine-liner to brigade HQ, including all of the information that I have given him. He occasionally likes to add his own spin to messages, so Maj. Clark snaps at him to relay the information word for word.

‘Cpl Coyle, if I relay something to you, I need it repeated word for word, is that clear?’

‘Roger that, sir.’ Kev looks at me with a naughty childlike grin.

The use of ‘Cpl Coyle’ and not ‘Kev’ tells him that he is in the shit.

No one is immune to getting gripped by the boss, and rightly so. If you have never been rebuked by your commander, you are definitely doing something wrong. Free thinking makes for a better fighting force, so long as that thinking is not
too
free.

I return to the medical room to check in on my guys. After quick medical interventions, the three casualties are stable enough for evacuation. The policemen have gotten off lightly; having said that, getting used to battle injuries has made me look at the body in a different light. Head injury? Very vascular area produces a lot of blood; could still be superficial. Abdominal injury? Looks nasty – anything perforated? No? Okay then – wrap, seal position, and move on. At times, injuries appear like a well-crafted training scenario.

Another crisis has been avoided; surely that is our lot today. Losing count of the casualties that we have treated, we make the now-familiar trip out to the HLZ. The Afghan soldiers on the base help to carry the stretchers onto the Chinook. They haven’t been trained in any type of helicopter handling, so giving a lesson with real-time casualties has turned into a scene out of
Ren and Stimpy.
I have come to believe that if you see it in a cartoon, you will most definitely see it in Afghanistan – and, more than likely, it will be with Afghan soldiers. Our militaries are trained to a very high standard; we control all of our movement in any given scenario through the use of all of our senses. The Afghans don’t, so two things can happen: either nothing or unorganised chaos, usually resulting in death or serious injury. They have no sense of danger at all, and on the battlefield, their ‘bravery’ is often out of all proportion to their sense of fear.

The current situation is by no means atypical. In 2006, when the first British troops arrived in the area men from the Royal Irish (RI) Regiment were assigned to mentor Afghan army units. After a fierce battle in Garmsir, the RI reported that the Afghans were not of sound mind, refusing to take cover in a contact and running straight towards the enemy. When their commander was shot dead, the soldiers stopped fighting and prepared to mourn his death. They had to be ‘fired up’ by RI soldiers to make sure they went back into battle. It dawns on me in the midst of the evac that Afghan tactical awareness is very different from that of UK forces. I take this evacuation slowly and use hand signals to direct the team, nice and simple and easy to understand.

We return to the medical room and quickly replenish the kit used. Once again, I retreat to the peace and quiet of my aid post to catch a couple of hours sleep. The noise from the radio next door ensures that it is never a deep one. It’s not long before I learn that Scotty’s boys are in trouble. I rouse quickly and head straight into the ops room. They are just over a kilometre away: their vehicle patrol is hit, and through the haze of battle, it emerges that one of the wagons is cut off. My heart is literally pushing at my throat at the thought of any of our lads being captured. The boss is beside himself.

Panicked voices over the radio net are not painting a good picture. Monty is already mounted up, ready to provide QRF to the stricken patrol. It’s times like this when an experienced commander does not make a knee-jerk reaction. Monty is chomping at the bit to get to Scotty, but the boss knows that sending more troops to the ambush site will only add to our woes. Plus, it could have potentially disastrous consequences until we know exactly what’s happening on the ground. This is the first time that I’ve really gotten to see the boss at work. Maj. Clark is pacing up and down, going through every possible scenario.

He speaks calmly and directly. ‘Monty, stand your men to, and await further orders.’

‘Roger that, sir,’ Monty replies.

In one motion, he has eased Monty’s tension by standing the QRF to. Monty will now go off and rally his men; in turn, they will prepare themselves mentally to help their mates. It’s a psychological victory for all, and yet no one is moving anywhere. When you are on the outside of a situation looking in, you see why certain things are said or done. The last thing the boss needs is to send more troops to an already perilous situation; this would be a last resort for him. His soldiers need direction, and good commander that he is, that is exactly what he will give them.

Barclay is the young platoon commander in charge out on the ground. Barely out of Sandhurst Military Academy (British army officer training), 2Lt Barclay will be running through options of where the vehicle may have gone. Together, he and Scotty will make a quick combat estimate, finding a workable plan.

By now, the boss has eyes on the area with the use of a video link from an unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) drone.

Barclay’s estimate will be uncomplicated and direct. In his mind, he will calculate a question: So, what is happening? We are missing a vehicle and three of my men. Therefore, I need to go back into the kill zone to get them. His combat estimate is then complete. His platoon, his soldiers, do not question his decision for a second; they are just desperate to find their missing comrades.

The ops room is silent. We sit staring at each other for a few seconds before we go back to staring at the radio. Even if Barclay does find the guys, the Taliban may have gotten to them first. It doesn’t take long to kill someone. During our pre-deployment training back in the UK, it was made clear to us that if the Taliban capture you, it is likely that you will be killed. They will execute you and possibly film it for distribution on the Internet.

Fifteen minutes pass, and still there is no news. It is becoming unbearable – everyone’s worst nightmare. Barclay is still searching, but there is still no sign of the missing WMIK. Another fifteen minutes pass, and then sound bursts from the radio: ‘Man down! Man down!’

Through our interpreters via ICOM chatter (this is the interception of enemy transmissions via interim communications operations method [ICOM]), we can hear Taliban commanders and their men closing in on our stricken vehicle. My heart races, and my palms are sweaty again. Silence follows. I know everyone is wondering the same thing I am:
What is going on out
there?

I start overthinking the situation, and I force myself to stop this speculative train of thought. Instead, I do well to concentrate on what’s actually happening. More information is coming through, and, suddenly, relief – the boss’s face says it all. They have found the missing soldiers, and every Jock manning the walls outside is desperate for the news. I am relieved but still anxious, eager to get hold of my wounded. Time is precious when soldiers are bleeding. The platoon eventually break contact, and the men head back to the base.

There are three casualties we prepare for a speedy evacuation. The platoon commander’s driver, LCpl la Roux, has bilateral injuries to his ears. Blood oozes from both of them, and his balance is non-existent; this the result of a close encounter with an RPG. Scotty has multiple fractures to the small bones in his hand, and young Lt Barclay has a gunshot wound to his upper thigh. (Barclay would later receive the Military Cross for his actions.) Tonight’s casualties mean three more out of the game; with men injured on a now-daily basis, something will have to give. The Afghan soldiers must be forced to stand and fight with B Company; if they don’t, Nad-e Ali will fall.

Barclay and Scotty are reluctant to go; losing command elements of any unit is a bitter pill to swallow. Barclay is just starting out in his career. For him, this is what he has spent the last eighteen months training for. I remind him that he has been shot; between them, they saved the lives of three soldiers. Fear does funny things to the soul; words on a page cannot ever truly describe the gut-wrenching nausea that you feel when rounds are zipping by. The non-politically-correct term of ‘my arse felt like it was about to fall out’ is the only description that even comes close. It might be the result of the shift in fluid that takes place in the body during the onset of shock, or the flight-or-fight scenario that’s a gift from the central nervous system.

Leaving no time to dwell on the incident, trouble magnet Duffy comes bounding in. ‘A direct hit, Channy. Happy days, mucker!’ He is describing his direct hit on the enemy closing in on the lads; eyes on, he engaged with a 66 mm grenade launcher. His action tipped the odds in our favour.

Cpl Gaz Wallace was the vehicle commander who was cut off with two others. As the night drifts on, I notice that Gaz is unusually quiet; I wonder if he’s okay, as he took in and maybe pondered on what could have been. I will catch up with him if he needs me; a soldier sometimes needs a moment to put situations into perspective. I don’t badger him; a friendly tap on the shoulder will do. We are a tight-knit group, and the lads know that our door is always open. The latest casevac results in another clean-up of our CAP.

Later in the evening, the banter starts to fly around the base, with taunts of what might have been if the guys were taken prisoner. Jokes about orange boiler suits and getting bummed by the Taliban are rife. With the Jocks, the insults are never far away, and they provide a good indicator that morale is still okay. In fact, the more inappropriate the better; this is the way that we all deal with the emotional trauma.

The news that more guys are heading our way is well received. We have already welcomed the PMT, and now a training unit called the OMLT (operational mentor and liaison team) are inbound. The OMLT is a small six-man training team; they will hopefully give direction to our Afghan brothers and help shape them. They have deployed from a much bigger UK training formation based near Camp Bastion. They don’t have a medic, so I loan them one of ours. I choose Sean for the task, as it’s a small team of six men working closely with the Afghans.

While the ANA accept our help medically in the base, I do not wish to push my luck by sending a female to live with and support them. Our numbers are falling fast, so the arrival of the OMLT will give us a much-needed uplift both in morale and numbers – six is better than zero.

Monty, now the sole platoon sergeant, faces a lot of responsibility. He has Cpl Jay Henderson as his second in command (2IC). Hendy from Wishaw is more than capable of holding the platoon together. Monty also has Davey and me on hand for support should he need it. Infantry soldiers are trained at least one up if needed; it’s not uncommon for commanders to be killed or wounded on the battlefield.

Thankfully, Monty is a strong senior non-commissioned officer (SNCO) who looks older than his years; his men admire him, and my medics feel safe with him. He is a typical Scotsman: likes a drink and smokes as many cigarettes as the day will allow. He is also a soldier that I learn a great deal from.

Given my mum’s background, I have no problems getting heavily involved in the Jock banter. Take young Ferris, for instance. ‘Shut it, ya wee fanny’ is a phrase that he often receives. Ferris is a comical young Jock who taunts all of the junior blokes and medics. Without realising it, he has become the soldiers’ morale booster, and he is always looking for an opportunity to act up. If he is not waking one of the other grunts up with the vision of his rear end or private parts right next to their face he is seeking out soldiers at their lowest point, trying to get a snap out of someone. Once the snap is complete, you will find the soldier recently at his lowest now laughing away with the rest of the troops. ‘Ferris therapy’ would never be approved by a medical board, but it works. I knew Ferris when I was a depot instructor. He was a young recruit when our paths first crossed. It’s hard to believe that we are now fighting alongside each other. He was the same then as he is now – a pest! I shake my head and laugh now, seeing his very white arse hanging out of a large hole in the back of his combats. This hole is from the wear and tear of the skirmishes that he has been in thus far, and he makes no attempt to cover it. It will no doubt soon provide a laugh for the other Jocks, if it hasn’t already.

Settling down into my bed space, I dig out my iPod and engross myself in the solace of some of my favourite tunes. I select a top twenty-five from my library, knowing this playlist will see me through the rest of this tour. My iPod turns out to be my one saving grace during these testing times.

Lying in the dark between Jen and Abbie, I think about my brother David. He was killed in 2002 when I was on exercise in Cyprus. David was trying to defuse a situation in the street outside a casino when he was killed. He was a non-aggressive person, which made his death hard to cope with. I keep a small picture of him in the inner sleeve of my body armour. It’s always there and very important to me. Along with the photo is a set of rosary beads. A friend of David’s gave them to me to put in his casket. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that his casket was already closed, so I kept them with me instead. I never thought of the beads as a religious symbol; they were simply full of memories of my brother.