Battleworn (4 page)

Rounds from semi-automatic weapons stitch holes into the walls. Flashes of electric-blue and -green light made by the blasts illuminate the faces of two of the Afghan police who have taken cover with us in the building. They have blank, exhausted eyes. Our enemies are Afghans, and the men sitting opposite are Afghans. There’s no war like a civil war. We’re outsiders, observers. We, like many before us, will leave our blood in the sand, and yet, one day we’ll be going home. They, on the other hand, will remain here, and they will still have the same tribal conflicts they had long before the coalition arrived.

As for Coaksee, it’s amazing what a shot of natural adrenaline can do for you. It draws out a peculiar energy. You face death and then suddenly feel reborn. The colour is back in his cheeks, and he joins the other blokes outside. My mind works overtime calculating how many casualties I think we are going to have, and, if my calculations are correct, we’re fucked.

The barrage suddenly stops as I struggle to my feet. It didn’t make sense. Either the Taliban had grown bored, or they had gone to ground after receiving the good news from our guns on the roof. Checking the guys around the lower part of the compound, I search for casualties. I am shocked to learn that by some miracle we haven’t sustained any. I don’t ponder on what might have been; the result is definitely favourable, and I am grateful. A medic’s life is different from that of any other type of soldier: we train and train, scenario after scenario, but every casualty is unique, and a feeling of dread always comes over me before I reach our injured. Being in the spotlight in these circumstances can make for a very lonely existence. I zip around the compound before making my way up the steps onto the roof.

Searching for the boss, I find him sitting behind a small brick wall, relaying communications to brigade HQ through Kev. His eyes are bright in the dim light, and dirt and dust cover his cheeks.

‘We’re good, sir. No casualties,’ I say.

He returns a rare smile, saying simply, ‘Thanks, Sgt T.’

I nod, not at all surprised by his brief response. Maj. Harry Clark is in his thirties, a tall man with sculptured features. He is well-educated and resolute, an officer with a stiff upper lip that never falters. He is passionate about his regiment and always thinks before he speaks.

At that same moment, Monty’s tobacco-thickened voice comes on the radio net from the old school, the first place we stopped to give support to the kandak that are housed there. There is a quick exchange of call signs.

Monty says, ‘Advice needed from M1.’ Mike one is my call sign as lead medic.

‘My medic has four cat-B casualties.’

Cat-B signifies that the casualties require urgent surgery. Four cat-Bs, even for an experienced medic, could prove overwhelming.

‘How’s she doing?’ I ask quickly, referring to the medic.

‘Best she can,’ he says. ‘She’s worked on three. No breath sounds on one side of the fourth. You happy if she decompresses his chest?’

‘Roger that,’ I reply.

‘She wants clearance,’ he adds.

We have no doctor here. I am the buffer for my medics, and, should she need help, I am a kilometre away.

‘Go ahead,’ is my response.

‘Roger that. Out.’

This is a baptism of fire for Pte Abbie Cottle, a slim, attractive brunette. Abbie is very calm around casualties and has a methodical approach to problem solving; she has the ideal temperament and is well suited to life as a combat medic. She hails from Gloucester and embraces the twang of a southern accent.

She reminds me of what it was like to be a junior medic – when you know the answers but lack the confidence and years of experience to make ‘that’ call. Even now, I check in for a second opinion; you never stop learning when it comes to medicine. The moment that you stop asking is the time to look at a different career.

I have already come to rely heavily on Abbie this tour. She has chosen Helmand as her first operational deployment, which is not a bad start if you want to get bloodied early.

‘Sir, these guys will need to be evacuated,’ I advise the OC.

Maj. Clark has been following the conversation, and he gives Kev Coyle the nod. In turn, Kev gets on the net to brigade HQ at Lashkar Gah, giving them a casualty report. We soon get the order to transport the injured to a helicopter landing zone (HLZ) outside of Nad-e Ali. It would be less detrimental for the injured men to bring the aircraft nearer to the old school, but it is deemed too risky for the pilots to land in an unknown area of operations (AO).

‘Sir, are you happy if I take LCpl Young with me?’ I ask.

‘Yes, do,’ he replies.

The boss always accommodates his medics, allowing us the freedom to crack on with our tasks with little interference. Our working relationship has been built through trust and sound judgement. It wasn’t always this easy.

The steps down to the compound are thick with dust, and in my haste I slip, making sure to catch my tail bone on the edge of the step. I stand up, swiftly dusting myself off.

Jenny Young is waiting at the bottom of the stairs; as usual, she is good to go before my even telling her that she is needed.

‘Jen, you are coming with me. We’re going back to the old school to evacuate these four casualties,’ I say.

LCpl Jenny Young is the third member of my team, a tall redhead whose resilience and strength never cease to amaze me. She is quiet in character, an old-school Northerner who only speaks if she has something intelligent to say. She doesn’t waffle and just cracks on with the task in hand. We were here together back in 2006. Jen was a medic on the blue-light matrix, fetching casualties from helicopters and transporting our dead and wounded to the hospital in Camp Bastion.

We’re taking two WMIK Land Rovers back to the ANA base. Instinctively, I climb into the vehicle with the biggest weapon – a .50-cal. machine gun – with Pte Michael Duffy cleaning dust off the barrel. The stuff is everywhere, thick as snow across the compound. It is just like talcum powder, getting into everything – up your nose, between the gaps in your teeth, in the corners of your eyes.

‘You know how to work that thing, Duffy?’ I ask.

‘Aye, you having a fuckin’ laugh?’ he says.

Laughing at Duffy’s response, I explain, ‘Four casualties at the school. We’re moving them out to an HLZ a couple of clicks away.

‘Ne dramas, mucker,’ he replies.

Duffy is tall and slim; he has a runner’s build. He is clean-shaven and not growing a beard any time soon, on account of barely being out of short trousers. I remember Duffy from Lash, when he was an eighteen-year-old arsehole who listened to hardcore rave music and drank too much Red Bull. He was a loud, irritating kid. That was twelve hours ago. By magic or some conjurer’s trick, that irritating teenager has turned into someone else. I now look at Duffy in a very different light.

Like me, Mike Duffy could have taken a very different path in life. He could have hung around on street corners, feeling cheated and believing that the world somehow owed him a living. Instead he chose to serve his country, and now he was protecting me and my casualties. People have paths to follow in life, and they each choose different ones for different reasons. Duffy and I might be almost a generation apart in age, but in this situation we fit perfectly. Life sometimes places you exactly where you should be, for good or bad.

The engine starts up, and we head off beneath the eerie light of the stars. My legs feel like jelly.

The Taliban are out there, sons of the sons of the same resolute fighters that have always been there. They say Afghanistan is the ‘graveyard of empires’. The Afghans routed the Russians, and the tribes kept us Brits from planting the Union Jack over Kabul. In the third century BC, Alexander the Great lost half his army in four years of battle, only sealing the peace by marrying Roxana, daughter of a Bactrian named Oxyartes of Balkh (in Bactria, then the eastern Achaemenid Empire, now northern Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan). She married Alexander at the age of sixteen years, after he visited the fortress of Sogdian Rock. Balkh was the last of the Persian Empire’s provinces to fall to Alexander. Like most soldiers, I started to read about the history of the place before we deployed. History was now telling me that everything we are doing here has been done before, and whatever mistakes were made back then, we are making again.

Small-arms fire rumbles through the night as we make the short trip to pick up the casualties. The Land Rovers which we are travelling in don’t have sufficient under armour to deflect the huge blasts caused by well-placed bombs. Any insurgent looking at tracks on a road can judge the route that a driver will take on any given day. While we’ve been pinned down in the compound, the Taliban may have sown the road with IEDs. In the dark it is harder to make out abnormal ground sign; it’s a good indicator that enemy have been active. Every metre, every minute, seems to take longer than normal.

‘You’re quiet, Channy,’ Duffy says. I don’t reply, for some reason thinking that he is talking to someone else, but he soon gets my attention. ‘Fuck me, it’s the morale police!’ he shouts.

Duffy’s banter reminds me not to dwell too much on our situation, and my mood immediately brightens. He slaps the barrel on his .50 cal. ‘I’m getting paid for this shite,’ he says. At eighteen, Duffy has no fear.

The roads are deserted except for some scrawny dogs that stand as still as statues, watching the vehicles pass. We make it to the kandak base without incident.

It’s good to see Monty and to hear his Jock welcome. ‘Yous lot took yur fuckin’ time!’

This is a good sign: some salty language means morale is okay. Soldiers survive on banter; it takes their minds off the fact that they, like the four casualties, might be in a world of pain at any moment. Once you are accepted into the fold, you can expect insults involving family members, including suggestions that your mother is doing something unmentionable.

Through an opening in the door I get a glimpse of Abbie at the centre of a group of Afghan soldiers. I follow Monty through to the group. The moment he speaks, other conversations end. Monty has blue-grey eyes like chips of flint, and a presence that leaves no doubt as to who’s in charge. ‘I’ve been keeping my eye on her,’ he whispers. ‘She’s done well, mate.’

As I enter the room where Abbie has been working, the smell of gasoline, human shit, and the cold coppery tang of blood hits me. The four wounded are all Afghans. Two have chest injuries, and two have multiple shrapnel and fragmentation wounds. The five Afghans helping out as medical orderlies have lowered eyes and expressions that are both respectful and bewildered. This could well be their first encounter with a Western woman. Maybe they’ve never seen the face of any woman except their mother, and the way they are willingly taking instructions from Abbie is a positive sign. They say in Afghanistan that a woman should only leave her home twice in her life: the first time when she abandons her father’s house to marry, and the second when she is taken from her husband’s house to be buried.

Abbie’s drawn features tell me all about the kind of night she’s been having. I move among the casualties, checking that they are stable enough to fly. She has kept four men alive in a situation that would have tested anyone. Although junior in years and rank, she remains calm under pressure. She was the first medic on scene after an IED killed Cpl Sarah Bryant, along with three special operations reserve soldiers, just weeks ago.

My mind drifts back to the details of that situation. I recall being very puzzled by the attitude of brigade staff after that hideous incident. News came through that we had lost four individuals, including one female. Naturally, my first thoughts were of Abbie and Jen, as my two medics were both out on the ground, one with the stricken call sign. Sadly, Sarah lost her life along with three operators, Sean, Richie, and Paul. Abbie, along with the remainder of the patrol, was tasked to cordon off and guard the scene through the night. The following morning at breakfast, I was informed that all female soldiers on site were to report to the cookhouse at 0930 hours for a ‘lines to take’ briefing, with reference to the heavy media presence on base. I took along my notebook and pen and waited patiently, sitting on the tables outside the main dining hall, keeping myself under the canvas for shade. There were about eight other females in attendance. Some who had shared accommodation with Sarah were visibly distraught.

The incident reminded us all that the Taliban weren’t discriminating when planning their attacks. They hit the propaganda jackpot by killing a pretty young blonde female – or at least we as a nation allowed them to hit that jackpot. Out of the blue, brigade commander Brig. Carlton-Smith appeared. Taken aback, I wondered why he, such a high-ranking commander, was giving us a ‘lines to take’ briefing; this was normally a task for the media operations cell. I asked the captain sitting to my left if she knew what was going on, but she appeared to be as confused as I was. It didn’t take long for all to become clear.

Bracing up as he arrived at the table, his voice softened as he told us to relax. Then came the impromptu counselling session, covering the effect on the entirety of the base and the emotional turmoil that we as women might feel. He went on to explain that it could be very difficult emotionally for us to lose one of our own.

Furious, I began to rage inside. The brigade commander had spent most of his career in an all-male environment. Knowing that, I tried to imagine, or at least understand, where all of this was leading. Sarah died serving as a soldier on the front line; she had earned the very basic right to be treated as a front-line soldier, she’d made the ultimate sacrifice for her country.

With the brief coming to an awkward end, we were asked to offer up any additional points. I looked around the table in search of support, none visible my hand shot up as soon as the commander’s final sentence finished. He looked straight at me. ‘Sir, should anyone at this table be asked about their feelings or opinions on this, can we remember that three blokes died yesterday as well?’ I stopped there, as I could feel his eyes boring into me, but I had looked directly at him the entire time, and I had spoken in a clear, unfaltering tone.