Warrior Brothers (21 page)

Special forces operations are very different from larger conventional army operations. As a small team operating in the badlands, there was always the risk that an entire patrol could be overrun and annihilated. In the rugged mountains and valleys of Eastern Afghanistan, this felt very possible. Forlornly, a small US special forces team of four discovered this some time later. One man, severely wounded, managed to escape. His three mates were less fortunate. Their bullet-ridden corpses were stripped and kicked before their degradation was completed – images of them were flashed around the world via the internet. In Iraq, several US sniper teams, all four-man teams, suffered the same fate.

If men go into an offensive battle as part of a company or battalion, they can have confidence that if they are wounded, they will be treated. If they are killed, their bodies will be bagged and sent home to their families. Operating in small groups of four to six men does not offer this luxury. If a man is seriously injured and the terrain does not allow an assisted withdrawal, then the patrol may have to hold ground against overwhelming odds and risk being wiped out.

In a contact there would, initially, be no-one to rely on other than the men by your side. Air support could be up to an hour away, and a rapid-reaction force (RRF) could take many hours. Our patrol discussed this and we agreed on a
‘one in, all in' mentality. The last man, if all remaining patrol members were confirmed dead, must fend for himself and attempt to escape. If someone was killed outright, their body would be left to the ravenous dogs that were chasing. Kane and I agreed that, if possible, each would rip something personal from the other's body, like a watch, which he would later present to the other's family.

But we didn't let such pessimistic thoughts overwhelm us. We had an OP to defend and intelligence to gather. As patrol 2iC, I was placed to the rear; the Para Minimi was also the most suitable weapon to cover the high ground behind us, which was the most likely direction of enemy approach. Dave and Kane were ahead of me, then Grant, and the Boss and K-man were on the leading slope.

The OP was located on the forward edge of the patrol position and the watch shift would be rotated at hourly intervals. The rear position would also be manned during daylight hours. After the entire patrol was familiar with the valley and defensive positions to our front, we attempted to minimise movement. The three rear men covered the high ground behind the patrol, while the three front men rotated through the OP. This was changed periodically. Staring at the back of the wooded hill offered little or no stimulation in comparison to watching the movements in the village below.

Anxiety was quickly replaced by discomfort and boredom. The re-entrant was lined with small scrubby trees that had one very annoying feature – their thistle-like leaves had four or five small spikes that repeatedly stabbed us in our backsides and hands. We spent considerable time sweeping the thick blanket of leaves away from our positions. This meant we could creep around the patrol location in relative stealth, but more importantly, we would only be stabbed by these evil little leaves a hundred times a day rather than every second of every minute of every day. Whenever a stiff breeze swept across our position, another blanket of leafy spikes littered
the ground. Sweeping the position was a relentless but necessary task.

Our desert fatigues proved unsuitable for the scrubby surroundings, so we wore our dark brown or camouflaged T-shirts over the top of our lighter-coloured shirts. We rubbed dirt into our pants and sleeves, all too often moving a hand only to be pierced through the fingertips by one of the dreaded little leaves. The days were stifling and the sparse vegetation at least offered some relief from the grilling sun. It was an uncomfortable OP.

The tacsat communication set was established in the middle of our position, with the patrol signaller to call in a rapid air-strike if we were compromised and attacked by a numerically superior force. We were well aware of the threat, so we maintained an extra level of diligence. The sun made it near-impossible to sleep during the day, so if you weren't on piquet, you would fill in your time by scanning the vegetation to the front.

Occasionally the silence was broken by an unfamiliar voice drifting from behind our location. We'd slowly lower ourselves to the ground while our hearts began to thump. Our eyes, groggy just moments before, were now sharp and able to focus with brilliant clarity. Adrenaline is a wonderful drug and within moments our weary bodies would be primed for action, like thoroughbred racehorses gated for a big race.

One time a man crested the feature and moved down the forward slope and across the front of our position. I clicked softly to alert the patrol before taking up a firing position with my Para Minimi. The others froze, remaining perfectly still with their rifles cradled across their legs. The slightest movement from any patrol member could compromise us. But the man, dressed in traditional white Afghani clothing, continued down the slope none the wiser to our presence.

Our bloodshot eyes observed the village, fixed, intense, straining and scanning – like those of a hawk searching for
prey. The light reflecting off our subjects was captured and scrutinised without consent. We were thieves, taking images without remorse. The light that was previously bouncing so freely off the subject, flickering like a butterfly, was suddenly bound to an image. The image was dragged up the mountain and sucked into the large round lens on the front of the scope and swallowed in reverse. Information was immediately sorted, unwanted images discarded, and those of more sinister intent remained captive, subject to further visual interrogation.

The village stirred. A man moved from one house to another. Women tended the fields. Finally, something of interest: there was a man with a mortar round cradled in his arms. From our vantage point we watched the man passing mortar rounds to his friend and storing them under the rear balcony of his mudbrick residence. The location was ‘lased' – mapped with the aid of a laser rangefinder and GPS device – and the event and precise grid coordinates were scribbled into the patrol diary.

We were enlivened by this first catch of the day. The sound of a military helicopter in the distance encouraged the village men to scale their roofs with binoculars, all the while talking feverishly into their handheld radios. We spotted a high-frequency radio antenna, as well as numerous bunker systems and men with weapons. It was very Orwellian,
Big Brother Afghanistan
– our eyes captured everything. Secure the image, analyse it, write it down; image, analyse, transcribe. This procedure carried on without interruption. Our OP's task required it to be manned 24 hours a day. The village would get no reprieve from our prying and spying.

Surprisingly, there were no children. This was definitely a concern. Was this a village of enemy fighters?

With our high-powered scopes we continued to scour the village, searching for anything that resembled militant activity. The OP was briefly disturbed by two thunderous
explosions that reverberated through the valley, delivering shockwaves into the mountains and cliffs. The muffled sound could be heard in the distance and grew in intensity as it echoed through the valley, like the roar of an angry lion. Birds scattered and heads turned in the direction of the blasts. With the aid of a compass, the direction, distance and time of the explosions were recorded in the patrol diary.

We recorded the reactions both of those in the village below and of the sentries in the mountains opposite. We were there to build up a picture and with each new piece the puzzle began to take form. Our impression was not of joy or happiness. There were no children laughing at play, no scenes of domestic routine and simple contentment. The picture we captured was one of darkness, sinister intent and rocket-propelled grenades. It was unsettling – something was not right.

In the early afternoon, at approximately 13:35, we received a message that the other reconnaissance patrol was in enemy contact. Although they were only 15 kilometres from our position, the ring of mountains made it impossible to hear the firing that was taking place. Over the radio, however, the sound was unmistakable. The patrol commander could also be heard, although his voice was regularly drowned out by the sound of firing in the background.

The patrol was isolated, in heavy contact and dealing with it. We knew how they felt. We later learnt more about their predicament in countless stories – it was all too easy to imagine. Craig initiated the contact, forced to shoot an enemy combatant at a range of 7 to 10 metres. After an initial few moments of calm, the air became thick with the sharp cracking noise of rifle fire, and pieces of lead flew around them. The sniper got busy and managed to land a large-calibre bullet on the chin of the man who was trying to kill him. The man was decapitated and his dog licked at his remains. The sniper, a compassionate and caring man, later commented that he ‘felt really sorry for the guy's dog'.

The sniper was almost killed himself – a 50-calibre bullet slammed into the tree beside his head and exploded into shards of splinters. Trees were being cut to pieces around the patrol's position as the incoming fire intensified. Another
militant managed to fire a rocket-propelled grenade at the patrol's position, but it thundered over the top of the men and detonated into the mountain behind them. The enemy was not fortunate enough to fire a second rocket. He was cut down by a burst of 5.56-millimetre fire.

The enemy manoeuvred into cut-off positions and occupied the ground above and below the patrol. Up to 80 men had now joined the fight and the patrol had to remain composed in order to avoid total annihilation. The squadron, several hours away at FOB Khost, quickly assembled a nine-vehicle RRF. The squadron commander led the convoy and within minutes a force the size of half the squadron was roaring towards the surrounded patrol.

Our patrol was sickened that we were not in a position to lend support. The initial plan had been for our two patrols to be located no more than 1000 metres apart – so we could provide back-up for each other. A second group of men opening fire would have confused the enemy and might have helped the stricken patrol to break contact. Instead we were stuck up a mountain, hearing their plight but able to offer nothing.

The afternoon progressed and the men under fire moved across the mountain, trying to stay out of sight of the enemy, who were vigorously hunting them. Night could not come soon enough, as the Australians' ability to don night-fighting equipment would allow them to fade into the darkness.

The ridge of the mountaintop slowly devoured the shimmering sun. Still the patrol desperately attempted to evade the probing enemy. It was a highly stressful situation but one that SAS men are trained to deal with. It was especially tough, however, on the patrol's young signaller, who was only there to make up numbers. He survived the day but, perhaps tortured by nightmarish recollections of his experiences, committed suicide several years later.

Within 45 minutes the coloured landscape began to fade, the bright pastel colours soon replaced by a lifeless grey that
darkened with each passing moment. The men were tense but knew that the coming darkness enhanced their chances of survival. They didn't have long to wait before they could attempt to break free.

As night arrived, the typical nocturnal sounds – the occasional howl of a dog, the drone of insects in the cool air – had been replaced by the voices of the scores of men who were moving through the darkness, above and below the patrol, searching for them. They stayed absolutely silent. With NVGs providing a significant tactical advantage, the patrol traversed the mountain before descending into a re-entrant in their bid to escape. They had been dodging the enemy for six hours. This is a long time to be on edge, but they were aware that their mates were on the way.

The convoy roared along the dusty tracks, the vehicles bouncing towards the valley. The squadron commander was well aware that his men were involved in one hell of a firefight and that time was crucial. NVGs scoured the slopes while laser illuminators took large sections of the mountain-side from impenetrable night into a lime-green day. The convoy had barely entered the gorge when thick streams of red tracer were flung towards their vehicles. The zinging fireflies skimmed over the top of the convoy but the men returned fire and continued. They would worry about the enemy later. They had a few of their own boys to collect first.

Meanwhile, our recon patrol was still suffering from the spiky leaves – this was as close as we could get to the action. We were in pole position to observe the enemy defensive positions, and we could admire the arrival of a C130 Spectre gunship that was trawling overhead. The aircraft's drone produced a feeling of elation in us. This devastating weapon could be called upon to silence the enemy, thus taking some heat off our mates.

The Boss efficiently rattled off the coordinates of the four enemy positions. Spectre illuminated one of the features with
a large infrared spotlight that was invisible to the naked eye. We adjusted the beam until the light covered the defensive position which accommodated the machine gun that was raking the road below with automatic fire. The gunship released a shower of 105-millimetre rounds that peppered the defensive position, but the red tracer fire stopped only momentarily.

The aircraft delivered another salvo of fire. The enemy gunman foolishly (or bravely) decided to shoot in the direction of the growling aircraft above. Tracer fire spat into the dark sky towards the aircraft, but to no effect. The gunship would deliver another salvo, there would be a short pause in the enemy fire and then it would continue. At last the bunker received a direct hit. We subsequently learned that the man operating the gun had several RPG rockets attached to his back and was vaporised. The DSHK 14.5-millimetre machine gun he was so valiantly firing was found over 100 metres away. The combatant was responsible for pouring rounds down towards the convoy and, even under extreme duress, he courageously continued in his quest to kill Australian soldiers. He was an enemy combatant but he was also tenacious and brave – you can't hate a guy who possesses such fine qualities.

The convoy continued roaring towards the desperate patrol. As the eyes in the sky, Spectre informed the convoy that there were up to 30 men lying in ambush ahead. The US forward air controllers (FACs) who were in the vehicles called in a ‘danger close' fire mission. The aircraft obliterated the enemy positions with 105-millimetre bombs, and large pieces of jagged metal burst in every direction. The vehicles were less than 60 metres from the blasts and so several large chunks of steel struck them. With enemy fire and friendly fragmentation raining from the sky, you would expect the operators to be ducking for cover, but one man, Brans, seemed to grow even taller as he continued to thump 50-calibre bullets towards the enemy positions.

Back at the US command centre at Bagram Airbase, a surgical officer deployed to the operations room and asked for an update so he could prepare the emergency ward. ‘Who is in contact?'

‘The Australian special forces task group,' he was told.

‘How long have they been in contact?'

‘Over six hours.'

‘What sort of weaponry is being used against them?'

‘14.5-millimetre machine guns and RPGs.'

‘Has an RRF been deployed to assist?'

‘No – they sent out their own force from FOB Khost.'

‘How many friendly killed and wounded are we looking at?'

‘None.'

There was a pause. ‘What, no casualties?'

‘Not yet,' came the reply.

The convoy dodged the streams of bullets and established radio communication with the isolated patrol. The patrol heard the rumblings of the vehicles and collectively thought,
We might actually get out of this
. The vehicles continued and had propped just before the re-entrant where the patrol was hiding, when an RPG and all of its fury sailed towards the lead car and skimmed over the bonnet before detonating on the ground a mere 10 metres away. An RPG is a basic but extremely lethal piece of equipment. The warhead is a shaped charge that detonates on impact and shoots a molten metal slug through its target. Its blast and fragmentation are similarly fearsome.

The men of the isolated patrol were just about to move when they saw the rocket narrowly miss the lead vehicle. It doesn't get much closer than that. One of the men thought,
God, this nightmare is never going to end
. The operators in the convoy were a resilient and valiant bunch – a great attitude in such a situation, as they certainly had more of the same treatment to look forward to on the way out.

Perched atop the large feature, our patrol continued to obliterate the remaining enemy positions. A total of four were silenced. The convoy received only sporadic resistance on their return and continued out of the valley to an area of open ground, where they adopted a defensive perimeter and prepared themselves for the much-anticipated light show.

The Boss was attempting to gain permission to drop J-dam missiles – 2000-pound laser-guided bombs – on the remaining defensive positions. Permission was denied, then approved, then denied, and when it was all too late, approved. The gunship informed our patrol that there was a group of 50 armed militants to the rear of the defensive positions. We were not granted permission to take them out as there were no longer friendly troops in contact.

One of the US FACs who was located with the convoy established comms and argued with US higher command to be allowed to bomb the enemy. The request was denied, and the FAC operator was most displeased. As he continued to air his sentiments, his diplomacy began to deteriorate until his conversation resembled nothing more than an outburst of venomous profanity. If you are going to spend a huge percentage of your life working, then it is only right to be passionate about what you do. He certainly appeared to love his job.

It had been a long night. It was early morning when we finally established a piquet and curled up in our sleeping bags. While watching the contact had been exciting, it was not the same as actually being on the ground with the men who were taking fire.

Our patrol was not in danger, but we did feel guilty that our mates were copping it and we couldn't be there with them. And while we did our part, it still felt hollow and we were left feeling more frustration than elation. Directing support fire from a distance does not stir any of the same emotions as active battle.

The squadron pulled back and we were tasked to observe the after-effects and the reactions of the enemy. We had initially deployed with four days' rations, which had now been stretched to six. It looked likely that this would be extended by another 48 to 72 hours.
Great, another three days of dreaming about food
, we thought.

The next morning a British commando battalion, which was tasked to sweep through the villages, began to arrive. By mid-morning the Brits were firing artillery rounds into the mountains to our front. The guns would blaze away three times, which would be followed by 30 seconds of silence, followed by three deep
crump
noises on the adjacent ridgeline. It was surreal to watch. The rounds sailed over the top of our position and slammed into the rock with a deafening shriek of piercing metal.

It was a show of force, and it appeared to work. The squadron and commando elements formed up on the line of departure – the place where an assault or attack would begin from – and our patrol was once again consigned to watch from atop this fucked-out mountain. We sighed to ourselves.
How in the hell did we land such a frustrating task?

We weren't men who liked to watch – we were participators. Sure, many Aussie men love to watch a game of cricket but that wasn't enough for men like us. Watching the Australian cricket team wreak havoc only ever inspired us to initiate our own game of backyard cricket, so we too could feel the elation of hitting the ball over the fence for six. We only watched enough to pick up a few of the finer points before having a go ourselves. As far as our patrol was concerned, the previous six days equated to a lifetime of watching. We wanted to play.

The reality of our situation was that there were more than enough players for this game. Although we were desperate to join in, who really cared about six men perched on top of the mountain? This, we agreed, must be what it feels like to be
the twelfth man. It was pure agony watching the squadron move through the village, and we hoped the boys wouldn't hit too many sixes. What fine team players we were!

We saw a village elder approach the squadron commander, assuring him that there were no Taliban in the village. This didn't surprise any of us. What was he expected to say, with the mountain to the rear of his house being pounded by artillery shells and a commando battalion praying for some action in his face? To top it off, there was the best part of an SAS squadron ‘loaded for bear' – heavily armed. Of course he was going to deny it.

The little porcelain cups of chai weren't too far behind. The villagers were keen to broker a deal. ‘Don't attack our village and we will give you some token ammunition caches that we don't really want' – that was their philosophy. Well, it worked. Instead of advancing into contact, the men were chaperoned around the village by several very friendly long-bearded men, who only the night and days before had attempted to kill Australian soldiers. This was a confusing war at times.

The squadron and commando elements completed their search and, as agreed, took control of several weapon caches. It was now time to go. Well, so we thought – or hoped. Our patrol was ordered to remain for another two or three days on top of the mountain, and the only way of filling our bellies came via thoughts and dreams. Thinking about hot chips, a slice of pizza, even a shitty burger, just didn't hit the spot. Regardless, we remained in location and continued to observe the enemy villagers, who were probably well aware now that they were under observation. Accordingly, we sourced very little tangible information.