Battleworn (6 page)

CHAPTER 2

ESTABLISH ROUTINE

B COMPANY ARRIVES AT THE AFGHAN BASE JUST BEFORE MIDDAY. THE place looks different from what I could recollect from yesterday. It was shabby and makeshift, displaying all the scars of a base under siege. Afghan soldiers sit around, some smoking, some chatting, and others sleeping. They look crushed, and we are quickly informed that they have been getting smashed by the Taliban for several weeks, constantly engaged in close-quarter firefights. They have lost several men and are low on food and ammunition. Hand-to-hand combat has left many dejected, and their battle-worn faces say it all.

This kandak fights alone and unsupported, and they have no indirect fire weapons, such as artillery; nor are they afforded the luxury of CAS in the form of Apaches or fixed wing fighter aircraft that coalition forces can call upon.

These men are fierce and proud fighters, although many lack the basic discipline that Western soldiers learn in training. Weapons and equipment must be looked after if they are to survive the intemperate conditions of Helmand. However, the Afghans are in disarray, and their battle discipline is non-existent. Their body armour is all over the place – weapons leant up against walls in direct sunlight, rubbish strewn everywhere. They have been using the outer wall as a toilet, and the smell of human faecal matter is so strong that it overpowers the diesel fumes from our vehicles.

Davey Robertson, B Company’s sergeant major, sets about ‘claiming’ some real estate so his men can establish a routine. He is an old-school soldier with a strong character, and by all accounts he is a bit of a ‘hard cunt’, as so delicately described by his men. I have yet to see any takers put this to the test. Just under six feet tall, Davey is covered in old tattoos. He has a glint in his eye, just like my man Duffy. Davey’s happy hardcore music would have probably been the Jam or AC/DC. That’s how it works: generations may change, but we all had our struggles somewhere along the line. It’s called ‘common ground’, and it’s how people in the military get on. You may not like the guy standing next to you, but you will find common ground with him in order to ensure that the job gets done. Beyond that, a mutual respect grows out of displayed skill and time spent together. I have only ever seen that in the military, and, more often than not, you grow to like someone’s once-annoying habits.

Monty and Scotty get busy placing troops into defensive positions ensuring all arcs – where the Taliban might attack from – are covered. (The idea behind this is that our PB will have all-round defence should the Taliban mount an assault.)

An ANA position on the roof of the tallest building is reinforced with a heavy machine gun. When troops are not on patrol, the big .50-calibre guns can be dismounted from vehicles and placed where they can be used most effectively. This job is left in the capable hands of young section commander Cpl Scotty Pew. Pew’s section has the back-breaking job of carrying sandbags up onto the roof to reinforce the gun position. This is both a physically demanding and time-consuming job. Sandbags are filled before Pew and his men carry them one by one up the dodgy steps and onto the roof; the steps are riddled with7.62mm holes from earlier clashes with the enemy.

The Taliban would have eyes on the position at all times. Pew and the other young Jocks were happy that the enemy knew they were there. For them, it meant that the Taliban could see the firepower that would smash them in any future attack.

Pte Drew Elder is another young soldier busy on the roof. Elder issued fire control orders last night to the less-experienced Jocks, acting as platoon runner for Scotty McFadden. Relaying information from one area of the roof to another, Elder took on the role of ‘link man’ for the platoon. The link man is probably the most important job in any fighting unit: if Elder gets it wrong the platoon, even the entire company, will become combat ineffective very quickly. Elder was raised in Falkirk, and he’s learning fast that his job is a thankless and sometimes perilous task. He puts his life on the line with every step taken in his role as link man.

Every soldier has a job to complete before any contemplation of rest is realised. Maj. Clark’s communications (comms) are set up by Kev, who quickly turns an unused classroom into our command post (CP). Kev has the unenviable chore of keeping this company in comms with brigade HQ.

Stopping my own job of setting up a CAP, I take a short break for a much-needed drink of water. I look around at the young soldiers going about their business, and it suddenly dawns on me that not so long ago some of them would have been bumming around Glasgow or other cities, sipping from bottles of tonic wine. They would have gone through the same decisions that I did before signing up.

Many are from broken homes, or they crossed to and from the wrong side of the tracks. Colourful backgrounds are in abundance throughout most armies. To me, this is nothing to be ashamed of; if anything, it develops character, and that is exactly what we need if we are to stand any chance of holding Nad-e Ali.

The young Jocks now man the corners of this isolated PB, poised to introduce the Taliban to a ‘Glasgow kiss’, in the shape of a .50-cal. machine gun. The only drink in sight is bottled water, or a few cans of Red Bull that the lads have managed to squeeze into their vehicles or bergens. When it comes to fighting, these men do it with ease; they are steeped in an infectious lust for life. Hardened beyond their years, their instinct to survive comes from a history of ferocious fighting men.

As I make my way back into the ops room, my team are busy emptying two patrol medical packs. We operate a military medical assessment using the MARCH-P principals:

M – Massive Haemorrhage

A – Airway

R – Respiratory/Chest

C – Circulation

H – Head Injury/Motor Function/Hypothermia

P – Pain/Environment/Evacuation

It differs from our civilian counterparts, as a massive haemorrhage will kill someone on the battlefield long before a blocked airway will. We use tourniquets far more freely in our line of work, and it would seem that the conflicts in Iraq, Somalia, and Afghanistan are helping the medical world adopt new protocols when dealing with traumatic injuries.

As CMTs, we carry battlefield trauma bags and small primary health-care packs. Extensive training, followed by intensive live tissue scenarios, best prepares medics for the types of injuries seen in war. Using ‘Amputees in Action’ was a major boost for our brigade; we were the first to trial the system. The guys were a mixture of military and civilians. I was amazed that some of them were literally reliving the trauma that they had already been through; battle-simulation noises and smoke contributed to the realism of the scenarios. Medics not suited to the front-line role were sifted out during these tests. Some medics are great in a clinical environment but not comfortable in the field, so this method of testing ensured that the soldier on the ground received the very best treatment that we could provide. When the make-up artist is done with guys already missing limbs, they look and feel exactly like the real thing. Add to that some realistic pyrotechnics, and you have some of the most-realistic training to date. Panic, shock, and awe equate to only a fraction of how you will feel when an incident proper occurs. Having said that, nothing prepares you for your own reaction. I have come to believe that every incident is different, and it’s always going to be the small things that get you flustered, or push you to 30,000 feet and rising. Mine is: ‘Where the fuck are my gloves? I am sure they were in my pocket!’

I have three junior medics in my charge, so the two remaining patrol packs will be used when members of the trauma team deploy outside the wire. As lead medic, I answer to the boss, Maj. Harry Clark, and advise him on all matters concerning his men and their well-being.

There is no room for error in my role, but I am prepared. I was waiting for this my whole life. Could I deliver under pressure, or would self-doubt cripple me? Ultimately, could I live with the prospect of letting these men down? Anyone who puts their head above the pulpit will open up to the chance of failure.

I learnt early on to leave my ego at home. An overactive ego has a tendency to get people killed. The state of the world today, not to mention a fair number of battles throughout history, will tell you that. The British insist that everyone has the ability to step up if required. One moment, you are carrying out orders from higher command; the next, you are stepping up to deal with situations that far exceed your pay scale or rank.

I covered the medical desk in brigade HQ, a job usually taken on by a senior captain or major. On my first day, a mass casualty call came in: over thirty Afghans, including children, were ambushed by Taliban fighters as they travelled by bus out of one of the district centres. I had to quickly evaluate and decide what major air assets were required, and then I had to make the necessary arrangements for evacuation. Further complicating the situation was the fact that the injured were local nationals; some would come to our own location at Lash, some would be seen at Camp Bastion, and those with less-severe injuries would go to the local hospital in the district centre of the provincial capital (Lash).

My moment of truth played out under the watchful eye of the brigade commander; this was when I could do with a bit of his ‘counselling’. The pressure I placed on myself was ridiculous, but I was determined to see it through. I did not falter. The assets required were multimillion-pound airframes carrying highly skilled teams. I wasn’t about to start playing my own version of war gaming or Risk. I briefed the chief of staff on what the medical situation required, and he, as a lieutenant colonel, gave the final order to move. Airframes were allocated to task, and, eventually, all casualties were retrieved and in the hands of medical personnel. It took several hours to complete, but the end state was welcome – not necessarily for our wounded, of course, but at least they were no longer at the mercy of the Taliban.

The buzzing activity of the PB brings me back to the moment. The hours have passed, increasing the heat; that, combined with my overzealous start to the day, has left me hungry. I tuck into more of my ration-pack pâté and biscuits before making my way into the ops room to help Kev tape up the windows, using black bin liner bags to drown out any light. Light from the smallest source travels far, and drawing attention to the room could have disastrous consequences.

Sangin Valley, 2006: Effect from a light source travelling at night initiated a 107 mm enemy rocket attack, killing two British soldiers.

Basic battle discipline was the only way to survive here. The atmosphere around the base is one of trepidation. A structure opposite us and identical to our own houses the Afghan army; they look on inquisitively as we continue to turn the ramshackle base into a workable fortress in minimal time. My peripheral vision witnesses a flash of movement – a group of Afghan soldiers diving for cover – as I hear the initial crack of incoming rounds.

Taliban rounds slam into the base, punching small holes into the walls and sandbags. Kev sends the initial contact report, and already the heavy machine guns on the roof are letting rip, pounding the enemy positions. The sound is deafening, making it hard to tell the difference between outgoing and incoming fire. Monty and Scotty are directing our fire. Bursts from the .50-cal. guns stop only to allow the distinctive crack of the 7.62 mm GPMG or 240.

Amid the noise and chaos, the boss, Maj. Clark, tries hard to control his men, issuing direct orders for the link man Elder to carry to the roof. Under heavy fire, Elder sprints off into the clouds of sand and broken brick thrown up by the rounds pumping into the buildings. He returns with news of what and who is being engaged from the roof. It appears that the fighting-age males noted earlier have returned, and they are now just south of their original position. It’s hard to tell if they are the exact group; however, the grid and descriptions logged all point to that conclusion. This time they are armed, which now make them fair game.

Scotty Pew has eyes on ten or more enemy fighters: they are using the canal and compounds as cover, moving freely between tree lines and overgrown fields. His gun group engages them with several bursts from the .50 calibre. The rounds from this weapon system are the same size as a thick felt-tip pen or a large Sharpie – you don’t want to be on the receiving end of 50-calibre fire.

Within ten minutes, five enemy fighters are confirmed dead. An Apache has arrived on station and is now stalking Taliban targets from the sky. This strange looking hi-tech helicopter has the profile of a mantis. The Apache is the biggest success story in Helmand. In military terms, it is a ‘force multiplier’, meaning that it can deliver the firepower of a support weapons company and more, with two air crew, a chain gun, and a pile of missiles. It’s not long before the engagement starts to appear one sided. With no reports of friendly casualties, the balance has been tipped in our favour: nine Taliban are confirmed dead.

I take a sip of water during the lull in gunfire, and it would seem that all is well. Relaxing too soon, a blast pierces my ears, rattling every bone in my body. First, I see a flash, and soon I feel the shock wave from the explosion. It’s close, far closer than I would like. Something has been hit. As I wait for more explosions, someone shouts, ‘Incoming!’

Kev quickly follows this with, ‘No fuckin’ shit, Sherlock.’ He looks across at me and gives the nod of approval that our taped-up window job has achieved its goal. No inward blast, luckily for Kev – it would have cut him in two in the spot where he sits relaying updates to brigade HQ.

A voice screams, ‘Medic! Medic!’ Whenever the dreaded call comes, it always sounds desperate. I instantly think,
Gloves?
A quick check confirms that they are in the pocket where I left them, so it’s all good.

The base is in silence. Jen and I sprint out from our cover, almost colliding with the boss. He directs us to the outer wall where Cpl Tony McParland was firing from. The sweet smell of burnt carbon against the metal from the big guns on the roof forms a thick wall of smoke impairing each step. When multiple rounds are fired, you’d be forgiven for believing that you’re just present at a fireworks display. The distinct smell is one that never leaves you.