Warrior Brothers (17 page)

The dangers facing us out on operations were many and varied. But landmines presented perhaps the greatest threat to our safety in Afghanistan. Along with Cambodia, the country is one of the most heavily mined in the world. Estimates have suggested there are more than 7 million mines spread throughout the country.

During our time in Afghanistan we received daily reports of landmine incidents in the vicinity of our airfield base. Soldiers, civilians and, even more sadly, children had their limbs blown off and bodies shredded by the deadly mines, which were a lasting legacy of the former Soviet Union. One unfortunate child was blinded, lost all four limbs and his penis in an anti-personnel mine blast. You steel yourself for the idea that soldiers may be killed or maimed, but hearing of children being torn apart was sickening, especially for those of us who have children of our own.

Unfortunately, the Regiment has lost far more soldiers in training accidents than on operations. In the years since I completed selection, such tragic losses touched my life on a number of occasions, each more senseless than the last. A close friend, Marty, who had organised my buck's night, was killed in a parachuting incident. He was a gregarious and charismatic man who loved life with every ounce of his enormous heart. I don't recall ever seeing him unhappy. We were presenting a parachute/dive demonstration to a salary review panel who were assessing if our skill-sets and workloads warranted a pay rise. Marty's arm was pinned when he exited the aircraft,
preventing him from being able to steer his parachute. Fate was unkind as he drifted into a clump of trees and struck his head on a branch. I couldn't believe that he was gone. His parents' house was rapidly turned into a shrine, crammed with dozens of photographs of his cheeky face.

Shortly afterwards, many more families were equally devastated when two Blackhawk helicopters collided in Townsville. The crash killed 15 SAS soldiers and three members of 5 Aviation Squadron. Safety standards are impeccable in the unit but the work is dangerous. The very same excitement that drew me and countless others to the Regiment – to be part of a unit that is able to achieve things that are beyond the capabilities of conventional units – can be perilous.

That year 16 young SAS soldiers had their names added to the rock at Campbell Barracks which commemorates the fallen. It was hard not to make that moment of grief personal: watching young children cry for a father who is never coming home; viewing Anzac Day with eyes that can actually picture the faces of friends who have been killed. Knowing Marty as I did, I picture him laughing to himself and boasting that it was his efforts that secured the boys a significant pay rise. Thanks, Marty, but I'm positive Skip, Evo, Craig and the rest of your mates would rather watch you making a goose of yourself on a Friday night, dancing on the speakers and drinking tequila laybacks at the Duck Inn.

The tragic passing of another three SAS brothers in a Victorian vehicle accident was equally heartbreaking. I knew one of these warriors well. Sergeant Craig ‘Crackers' Linacre was the husband of his beloved Taryn and a devoted father to Asha. He was an incredibly gifted soldier, one of the best. I will remember Craig for his infectiously enthusiastic personality, his love of being a water operator, and his smart-arse grin and mesmerising vocals that were capable of shivering an audience's soul. And as for bravery, well, Crackers' actions in Afghanistan spoke louder than words.

Our patrol was informed that we would be placed on the evening security piquet of the SAS compound. This was not an unusual or particularly arduous task and there were always three men on at any one time. One soldier would secure the front gate, one would man a machine gun on the roof to monitor the rear perimeter, and a third would rove around the inner perimeter. Two hours after last light, I was woken to begin my shift.

The security piquet was generally a pretty boring way to spend two hours. I was in a pair of shorts and just threw on a wind-stopper jacket, my webbing vest, helmet and night-vision goggles before grabbing my Para Minimi light machine gun. I also opted for a set of double-plugger thongs rather than my boots – a decision I would come to regret.

I walked to the northern building and silently scaled the ladder. It is always fun to sneak up on the man who is manning the gun piquet, never more so than when, as in this case, the unsuspecting victim was a support staff soldier (non-SAS personnel). I crept onto the roof, but all my plans of surprise were stopped when I noticed the soldier on duty diligently scanning the rear of the compound with a thermal viewing device.

I was impressed with the professionalism of the man and approached him, asking what he was looking at.

‘I'm watching a couple of Americans lying down in the grass outside the perimeter,' he replied matter-of-factly.

I thought this was a little odd and quizzed the man as to how long they had been there and what they were doing.

With the aid of my NVGs I began to watch these supposed ‘Americans', who were no more than 100 metres in front of us. Far from just ‘lying down in the grass', they were moving in a very military manner. It was a dark night and I had trouble picking up detail. The figures were hazy but I noticed that the men would move 10 to 15 metres before appearing to prop. To say I was rather suspicious of their motives would be an understatement.

I asked for the thermal sight, and when I focused on the men it was clear that they were probing towards the rear of our compound. They were obviously trained in military tactics, as they moved one at a time while the other knelt with weapon poised. Furthermore, they were armed with rifles that were pulled into their shoulders and held parallel to the ground. Just before they disappeared behind a large sea container, I could see they were wearing turbans. Americans, my arse!

I told the security piquet to inform Ops that a couple of guys were probing our rear perimeter. In hindsight, we should have opened fire. I didn't initiate contact due to the initial claim that they were American. To this day I regret that decision. Had I not hesitated, it might have saved a young girl's life.

The squadron commander and Ops team assessed the situation and observed the two men casually walking away from our perimeter before disappearing into a hole-riddled building some 200 metres away. After reporting the incident, a decision was made to send out a five-man team to contact the enemy. I was in, as were four others: the squadron sergeant-major (SSM), the squadron 2iC, and an operator from both the mobility and water troops, Thommo and Big Dave. Selection was down to nothing more than finding three
guys who could be ready to join the hunt in less than no time. The SSM and 2iC were in the squadron command group, which meant they rarely got to leave Bagram, so nobody resented them being part of the team. In any case, the SSM was a great shot and had the fortitude to back it up.

There was only one thing undermining my own enthusiasm for the job ahead: my footwear was completely inappropriate! I couldn't risk returning to my accommodation to throw on my boots as I didn't want to lose my spot. If the Vietcong could march through the jungles of Vietnam in battered pairs of homemade sandals, then I was more than capable of running around in a pair of thongs. Besides, if they gave me grief I could always kick them off and go barefoot.

We assembled near the front gate for a snap set of orders, and it was clear that the squadron 2iC was going to be in charge. Without any further talk, we wove our way through the wire and disappeared into the darkness in search of our prey. While we were fairly sure that we were the hunters, we could not discount the strong possibility that we were stumbling into an ambush. To counter this, spacing and silence were emphatically maintained.

There was no denying it – this was exciting. We were tracking two armed men who, from what I'd seen, possessed some degree of military training. We crept along a narrow track in single file to more easily thread our way through the heavily mined area. About 50 metres from the stone building, we stopped. Ahead, we briefly saw the shadowy movement of two figures passing across the doorway. The 2iC signalled to me and the SSM to find a place from which to provide fire support. We looked at each other and could read the other's thoughts: who wants to fire from a distance when there is an opportunity to get up close and personal? I was regretting my choice to take a light machine gun and not my rifle.

We moved off to the flank where, due to the two-foot-high grass, we had to adopt a kneeling firing position. I was
painting the building with my laser while using my NVGs to identify signs of movement. The SSM kept a vigil on the three-man assault team and provided commentary to me as to their precise position. The assault team had just disappeared from view when the silence was broken by the sound of three rapid shots.

I couldn't see our guys at all, and had to wait until I had their current location before I could follow my instincts and pour fire into the building. The SSM quickly let me know that they were somewhere to the right of the building so I was free to ‘get into it'. I placed the dot from my laser in the doorway before squeezing the trigger. I planned to fire several bursts into the open door, however my weapon had other ideas and fired a single round before a cartridge became wedged under the bolt and prevented any further firing. I quickly cocked my weapon and attempted to refire but – nothing. I opened the feed cover and removed the belt, feeling inside the weapon for signs of anything unfamiliar. Even in the pitch-darkness, I managed to clear the weapon and find the offending obstacle. I pulled out the mangled cartridge and threw it into my breast pocket.

As I straightened up with my gun again there was deathly silence. We had no idea who had fired the three rounds. We called out to our mates. There was no reply. We waited a moment, listening and watching carefully, before trying again. Silence. Three shots, three of our guys. Surely the enemy weren't capable of achieving that in the dark.

I turned to the SSM: ‘Let's head back to the track and see what's going on.'

He nodded firmly in response. ‘Right on, tuffy.'

There was no point in procrastinating any longer, so we crept up the track, almost side by side so we could deploy both our weapons. Our safety catches were disengaged and our fingers were comfortably poised on our triggers. Our lasers were flashing past the window of the building and our
NVGs turned the darkness into a depthless shade of green. We were ready for anything.

There was nothing but an eerie silence and slight breeze that touched our perspiring necks and faces. We were not carrying a lot of weight and had been relatively still on this cool night. As I was dressed more for the beach than a military contact, it would be fair to say that any perspiration could be attributed to the adrenaline pumping around my body. The two of us were poised in anticipation, bracing ourselves, at any moment, for a volley of fire.

Despite my concern for the welfare of my mates, I felt more alive than ever before. Parachuting, diving, driving fast – none of these things come close to the feeling and apprehension of combat. Especially at that moment of calm, just before things go loud. Once things really swing into action, most guys with any decent training just react instinctively. Waiting for the unknown is far more intimidating – and exciting!

We took up fire positions and called out once again to the other three assault team members. There was still no reply. I informed the SSM that I had my radio in my vest and would turn it on to attempt to establish communications while he covered me. My webbing was prepared for a reconnaissance patrol so the radio was well secured. I quickly attached the antenna and within seconds of turning on my personal radio I heard the 2iC's familiar voice. I established contact and was informed that they were chasing the two combatants towards a village. I asked if the buildings had been cleared – they had not.

Reassured that the assault team were all okay, I requested approval from Ops to clear the uninhabited buildings with grenades. The squadron commander's answer was an immediate and emphatic refusal.

The SSM just laughed. ‘Serves you right for asking. You should have just done it.'

We lined up outside a window and, despite my offer to enter first, the SSM took the initiative, withdrew his pistol and dived inside. Cursing silently, I followed him. We moved swiftly through the first room, sweeping for any human presence before moving on.

Before long, there was one room remaining and as we entered the doorway we half-expected a burst of 7.62-millimetre rifle fire. As a defensive precaution, I took up the slack on my trigger as we carried out a partition drill. This time I took the lead, leaving the SSM to ‘carry the drinks' from behind.

The two of us had established a bond many months before when training on Enoggera Hill, but at that moment, making our way through a deserted and pitch-black building in Afghanistan, our respect for each other cemented the friendship. I was impressed with the SSM's courage, even if it did piss me off to be sharked into the dwelling by a man who was 12 years my senior. Several years later we would catch up in Afghanistan while working as private contractors. The SSM enticed me to run a half-marathon with him at Bagram. For a man who wakes up, opens a packet of chips and washes it down with a durry and a can of Coke … well, it impresses me that he is able to run so well.

I informed the 2iC that the building had been cleared and that we would move to their location. We patrolled some 150 to 200 metres along a small bank, and joined the other three members just as the moon illuminated a series of mine markers: we had stumbled into the middle of a minefield. We instantly froze. Assessing our options, we decided to retrace our exact steps and exit the minefield along the same bank we had so casually traversed just moments before.

We maintained spacing and moved gingerly along the darkened mound of earth. At such a perilous moment, many things go through your mind. I wondered just how much it would hurt to have my foot blown from my body. Thommo
told me later that he had refused to look down. His logic was that losing the lower half of a limb is bad enough, but being blinded was an even greater cause for concern.

Worse still was the fear of having the blast rip into your groin and remove your manhood. Mines are nasty. We had already been deployed for several months and the idea that my sexual frustration could be a permanent state due to my genitals being pulverised wasn't worth thinking about. Give me two bullets in the stomach any day. Some of our team took bigger steps to minimise the amount of contact they had with the ground. Others appeared to be stepping softly to reduce their impact. An anti-personnel mine will go off if the corner of one's boot initiates the slightest downward pressure, so this last tactic was more a bit of comical relief than anything else.

With each step, our feet would sink into the soft earth below as we dreaded the thundering blast that could instantly destroy a person's life. This was the wrong kind of excitement. Not knowing what's around the corner is one thing, but making our way through a minefield was a situation none of us ever wanted to be in again. Being shot by an adversary is no soldier's idea of a desirable outcome of battle, but it is something that you think you could deal with. If the enemy manages to shoot faster or straighter or is luckier than you, then fair enough. But having your lower limbs shredded by a small Russian device planted over 20 years ago was not something that anyone would request from Santa. There is just something so damn offensive about being taken out by such impersonal means.

We made it in one piece back to the path and moved about 400 metres to the north-north-west, bypassing several derelict buildings on our way. Our aim was to cut the enemy off before they got too far. SAS operators on the roof of a building inside the perimeter were vectoring our team onto the enemy. They informed us that we were walking parallel to them.

Due to the vegetation, each group was unaware of the
other's precise location. The men in the compound were attempting to identify the enemy position with lasers but the splash deflected off numerous surfaces, making it difficult for us to know exactly where they were. We knew we were close but we still didn't have visual confirmation. We circled around the minefield and were now 500 or 600 metres from our compound. We were informed that the two men were walking towards us, so we took up firing positions, with my light machine gun taking pole position on the track.

We scanned feverishly through our NVGs, eyes straining for any sign of movement. The enemy moved to within 50 metres of us before entering the last clump of vegetation. We knew they would soon be exposed. Minutes passed – our every muscle was coiled in anticipation. But another report came through from the compound. Our targets had changed direction. They were continuing away from us to the north.

After several minutes the 2iC ordered the team to continue. We located another small path leading in the enemy's direction to a single dwelling some 200 metres away. Was it possible that we had them cornered? The 2iC took the lead, with me, as the light machine gun operator, right on his tail. There was then a 15-metre gap back to the SSM and a further 15 metres to Thommo and Big Dave.

This move was the most nerve-racking of the entire event. Once again, we were expecting the flash of muzzles followed by rounds zinging through the air. Our unseen adversaries could have been anywhere. The 2iC and I carried out small silent bounds towards the last dwelling, while the remaining members adopted a position to provide fire support.