Battleworn (23 page)

The intense overpowering midday sun makes for an interesting pre-lift casualty brief to our stretcher bearers. Wiping sweat from my eyes, I wait for confirmation that both helos are airborne from Camp Bastion. With no time to waste and with everything under control, we begin to move our injured towards the HLZ.

I spot an overzealous Afghan soldier driving his truck at speed in the direction that we were now heading. It looks like he may be trying to assist, but his reckless headless-chicken reaction is dangerous; this sort of lunacy will only create more casualties. So back to the start it is for me: scene control. Smashing the butt of my rifle onto his windscreen, I signal for him to stop. Trying to remain calm, I demand, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I force my fully armoured frame into his open driver’s window, removing the keys from the ignition. Abbie would later laugh that from her view near the CP she could see me hanging halfway out his window, like a great white hanging out of a shark dive cage, apparently. By this point, I reach for the hand brake, gripping the keys and his collar tightly in my other hand. I wait for the other Afghan soldiers assisting me to sort the soldier out. They drag him from his vehicle before moving him away.

Staying on task, I call vehicles forward. They are laden with our wounded, and the stretcher bearers follow on foot behind the vehicles. The scene we face takes my breath away: splashes of vibrant red cover the desert camouflage shredded by the blasts, barely covering the bodies of our wounded. People are talking to me; I see their mouths moving, but I can’t hear anything. We have casualties that are physically hurt, but we also have young men in precarious mental states. Making ground slowly, we edge towards the HLZ. I give Abbie one set of handover notes, and I take the other. The four cat-B patients are split. The remaining cat-Cs will be divided equally between the airframes.

Sean and Monty suddenly appear at the front gate, with the femur fracture and Pte Coakse (‘Coaksee’). The femur has been very well splinted, in light of where they were during point of wounding; he has been extracted, much to the detriment of the call sign. Another fighting withdrawal has created a heat casualty. Coaksee’s eyes are rolling in the back of his head, and he is barely conscious. I can’t risk keeping him here, so he gets evacuated along with the rest.

Sean tries to administer fluids orally while the rescue birds hover above, but there’s no cover to site an IV. Time just isn’t on our side. The information has already been logged, so I will have to make sure that the MERT don’t miss Coaksee or overlook him. There are no stretchers left, so Sean will carry Coaksee onto the helo.

We settle the casualties down in the usual position to the side of the landing site, and without warning, one of the Afghan soldiers decides to walk straight across the HLZ. Two Chinooks are hovering above him, coming in to land. By some miracle, the downdraught has disorientated him enough to move him towards my position. I grab him by the scruff of the neck before forcing him face first into the dirt, all the while nursing the vision of him losing his head to the low rotor blades at the front of the Chinook.

The airframes land simultaneously; the familiar faces on the back of the airframes are a welcome sight. Doctors from my regiment hand us bags full of medical kit and all the good stuff from the store housed in Camp Bastion.

The casualties go on, and my Afghan medical team get it right this time: they control themselves, and for a moment, I am proud of them. I explain Coaksee’s situation to the receiving team, and they are all over it. As casualties are systematically handed over, our team move off and take cover from the downdraught.

The two Chinooks lift off the ground together. It’s incredible, and the buzz from adrenaline is like nothing that I have felt before. As the dust settles, the sound of the engines peters out into the distance. I have a weird moment, wishing that I was on one of those birds, heading home. Running back to the PB, I don’t dwell on my ‘moment’ too much, pretty sure most people are feeling the same.

The aid post is in chaos; I don’t know where to start. Blood coats much of our equipment, and the sodden clothing from casualties, including their shoes, are still in place where their bodies once lay. Vomit covers the floor where Jen dealt with the head injury. Of all our patients, I was most doubtful of his recovery. Grabbing a pack of water bottles, I pass them around the team. Nobody speaks for ten minutes or so, silently taking in the magnitude of what has just happened. Fiddling with a clinical waste bag, I forget for a second why I have the damn thing in my hand.

Our solemn mood changes to an angry one as stories emerge about the cause of the carnage today. Our guys weren’t shot up by a well-dug-in Taliban position, nor did they encounter a daisy chain of IEDs, as initially thought. They were hit by the hellfire missile from the Apache gunship (or fragmentation from it) – the same hellfire that we had celebrated hours earlier. No one took the news calmly, least of all Davey and the boss.

After a tense regroup in the CP with all call signs in attendance, it transpires that friendly grids given over the net have been miscommunicated as enemy grids. The Apache pilot wasn’t at fault; he engaged what he thought were enemy positions. Luckily, Capt. Wood called the Apache off just before he was going in for a second run. The 2IC’s quick reaction stopped the Apache from re-engaging.

No one wants to take responsibility for such a colossal fuck-up. The patrol commanders thrash it out in the ops room, leaving relations between B Company and the Throatcutters strained, to say the least. No one is talking, and I see that my command chain is in no hurry to kiss and make up. The truth is that the situation happened during a phase of fighting commonly known as the ‘fog of war’; it’s never welcome, but it happens, and in some cases it is unavoidable.

Our base is on its knees, when it comes to manpower; we need battlefield replacements. Looking around, we as a group are threadbare. My own positive mental attitude is waning. Sgt Maj. Tony Mason from the mentoring team is out of the game, and Davey needs a number two for outgoing 51 mm mortar missions. I offer my assistance, and he accepts. Times have become desperate, and it’s very much a case of each of us doing whatever we are capable of doing to help hold Nad-e Ali.

The military’s Law of Armed Conflict states that as a combat medic, I can only fire in anger to protect myself and/or my casualties, unless the circumstances are deemed exceptional. With sixty-six out of one hundred men injured and four Afghan soldiers dead, I am comfortable with the notion that Nad-e Ali is now in exceptional circumstances. I don’t take the decision lightly, but I think about us overrun and slaughtered by the Taliban. I can see the spun headline now: ‘Female Medic among the Dead, Unable to Man the Mortar’. I will always upset someone along the path that I have chosen, and that someone can continue to battle it out on their own call of duty battlefield. Weak if I die while surrounded by munitions; wrong if I use those munitions because I choose to survive.

After the death of my brother David, I knew that I would never allow myself to become a victim; and if there was ever an opportunity for me to do something – anything – to avoid that, I would take that opportunity. I would do whatever was necessary to avoid it. That is still true for me; it always will be.

As the number two on the mortar, my role is to prime (or arm) mortar rounds for Davey. I have been trained on how to use the weapon system, learning to do so during another course at the ITC in Brecon. It is a small weapon, easily man-packable, and often used if the Taliban attack at night. The team fire what we call ‘para-illum’, which, at a fixed height, detonates and lights up the night sky. Its powerful flare lasts for almost thirty seconds, allowing the Jocks to identify the location of enemy fighters hiding under the cover of darkness.

There was a time when it would have been unheard of for a medic to man the mortar line, times are a-changing. The Jocks aren’t concerned: it doesn’t matter what cap badge you wear so long as you can do the job. The days of definitive front lines are over; this is a 360-degree battlefield. My time in Marjah has already proved that every soldier must be prepared to engage the enemy, or at least be capable of reacting to any given situation. I am grateful for the hideous training that I have put myself through prior to this deployment. Spending much time with Paul Scott, a sergeant in 2 PARA’s support company, I learnt all about support weapon systems from him, including how to employ them within a company group. His skill helped to shape mine, and with his guidance, I passed both basic tactics and our military senior range qualification courses. Tactics with distinction, the other ‘scraping’ an A grade. Scotty joked on my return that if I had been a paratrooper, I would have passed both with distinction. I was, and still am, grateful that he took the time to teach me.

He must have gotten something right, because here I am in Helmand Province, about to embark on my first mortar mission. It’s a hesitant one. As Davey fires, I nervously hand him mortar rounds from the crate next to me, making sure that the safety pin is pulled off the side of the nose fuse (that’s the way that the bombs are armed before firing).

We work well together. I practice firing when using the illuminated flares or smoke rounds, and this makes sure that I get it right when firing high explosive (HE) rounds. We smash through several crates before coming across a crate of duff mortars, ineffective perhaps from heat damage. Setting them aside, I call for another crate.

The time I spend on the 51 mm takes my mind off the depressing reality of how many casualties we are taking. The CAP is always my top priority, but this secondary task gives me something other than blood to focus on.

PB Argyll is under attack now, and Davey and I hurry out to our pit. Straight into it, Maj. Clark calls out, ‘Five rounds from the 51! Fire for effect, Sergeant Major.’ Off we go like a well-oiled machine. Within seconds, the boss sprints out of the CP, screaming for us to take cover. ICOM has identified that IDF is imminent.

Davey and I lay face down in the dirt, waiting for the incoming mortars or rockets to land. Out in the open ground, with no cover at all, sheltered only by my oversized helmet and the plates in my body armour, I think back to the moment when I offered to help, wondering,
What the fuck was I thinking? Volunteering? Haven’t I learnt anything?

There by the grace of God go Davey and I. A great man, I have a lot of admiration for big Davey, mainly because he cares so much for his men. Their welfare is always his priority, and he makes sure that they know it. He is the bearer of all news, good and bad. Unscathed, we pack up our makeshift firing pit and head back to the CP.

A few hours later, Davey approaches me as I carry out some personal chores. He tells me that one of my section medics has been shot down in the Nawa district south of Lashkar Gah. We were there the week before this mayhem started. LCpl Andy James was one of my squadron’s rising star’s; he’s been evacuated to Camp Bastion. The news puts our whole team on a downer. Of late, the days have brought us nothing but shit news. Andy was due to join us down here in Nad-e Ali. It could be worse though, at least he is alive.

I retire to my roll mat for some much-needed quiet time. A quick hour should do the trick. Closing my eyes, I fall into the deepest sleep. Ten minutes in, and the PB is hit again. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ I mutter, waking like a bear, with a sore head, body armour intact, and helmet straight on. Rounds ping their way through the ops room windows, this time ricocheting around the room.

A young Jock narrowly missed yells out, ‘Ah, well… better luck next time, ya fuckin’ bawbags!’

Flashheart is up and about, clutching his red iPod.

‘You okay, sir?’ I ask before lying back on my roll mat.

‘I’m always okay, Sgt T,’ he says with a smile.

‘Red iPod okay?’ I say.

No reply this time, just an awkward smile followed by an awkward silence.

Capt. Wood laughs in the corner before mumbling, ‘Man-crush.’

The jokes and abuse keep everyone grounded, and after a truly desperate couple of days, I wonder how much more we can take. We have two platoons of men who aren’t fully manned, and we have no OMLT to mentor the worn-out kandak.

Four soldiers are dead so far, and we count ourselves lucky that we haven’t lost more. The boss orders another no-patrol day tomorrow, and the news is most welcome. Flashheart and his now combat-ineffective team will await the arrival of the new OMLT, just as B Company will await the arrival of the first elements of 42 Commando. The kandak will remain in place until further notice; not a nice prospect to face, but they carry on regardless. I remember meeting the OC of Lima Company, 42 Commando, which would replace us in Lash. He was on the advance reconnaissance package that units do prior to deployment, which gives an indication about ground covered, future intentions, and all of the other good stuff that make up the ‘big picture’. We Brits always do our recce way too early; a lot can change in a few days, let alone weeks.

By the time these guys turn up, their AO is completely different from what they were briefed back home. We deployed on a familiarisation patrol around Lash district centre, covering all noteworthy points. Towards the end of the patrol, we encountered a suicide bomber dressed in a burqa. The Afghan police shot him dead before he could detonate very close to Governor Gulab Mangal’s compound. The burqa was bright pink, a very unusual choice of colour for these parts, paired with glitter-emblazoned high heels. In short, it was not the low-profile suicide bomber that I was expecting. Identified as a male, he couldn’t walk properly in the heels that he wore, which first attracted attention and then quickly sparked suspicion. Non-cooperation to verbal warning orders led to a burst from an AK-47 assault rifle.

Heading straight to Nad-e Ali, Lima Company of 42 Commando are in for an interesting start to their tour.

CHAPTER 8

ALI CAT