Fire Strike 7/9 Read online

  I asked myself if it bothered me that I’d whacked that guy? Killing that enemy fighter didn’t really worry me; it was either him or me. I’d first knowingly killed a man in Iraq, back in 2003, at the height of that war. I was out in Al-Amarah with a patrol from The Light Dragoons running a Vehicle Check-Point (VCP).

  It was 0300, and I was the gunner on the Scimitar light tank. One of the lads, a softly spoken South African, called Rob Deery, stopped a car. He asked the driver to open his boot, but the driver refused. He asked again. Again the driver refused.

  I jumped down from the wagon and faced up to the Iraqi. ‘Open your fucking boot.’

  The guy gave me the evil eye. ‘No open.’

  I forced him to hand over the keys. I cracked open the boot and it was crammed full of AK-47s. I told the guy if he came to the base and produced permits for the weapons, we’d return them to him. For now, we were confiscating the lot. The guy drove off, and a couple of minutes later we were engaged from three hundred metres away. The fire was coming from the Al-Amarah football stadium, where the Iraqi police had a checkpoint. It was clear as day that it was the police who were engaging us.

  I dropped to the deck and returned fire with my SA80. One of the lads, John Hunter, asked me what the hell I was doing. I told him I was winning the bloody firefight.

  ‘But they’re Iraqi coppers,’ he objected.

  The Scimitar was acting like a bullet magnet, and that’s where the rounds were hitting. I ran around the back dodging fire and jumped into the gunner’s seat. As I did so, I cracked my head on the turret. That was it: I was steaming now.

  We headed out in the Scimitar to find the fuckers who were shooting at us. As we approached the football stadium, I spotted two guys on the roof. Both had AK-47s. They opened up just as soon as they saw us coming. I was perched on the backrest of the gunner’s chair with my head sticking out of the wagon’s open turret, rounds ricocheting all around me.

  I dropped down, grabbed the Gimpy and returned fire. I hit the first guy in the left eye socket and then in the heart. As he fell through the air his weapon was still spewing out tracer rounds. The second guy was in cover behind a horizontal concrete railing. I put the first round in his right shin, two more in the left, and four across the belly — so that was below and above the pillar I’d hit him.

  When we got back to base and dismounted the vehicle, I saw all the impact marks of the bullets that they’d been spraying at us. I’d had my ‘tankie’ headset on during the contact, so I hadn’t heard the racket all the incoming rounds had made. They were bunched all around where my head had been poking out of the wagon, and just inches away.

  It was either those guys or me, and luckily I’d got the drop on the both of them. But the story that got back to Nicola was that I’d taken out a whole village of insurgents with a Leatherman. I got on the phone and told her the truth — that two guys had tried to take us out with AK-47s, whilst we were in a tank. I still had a bit of explaining to do though. Prior to deploying I’d told her that we were going out ‘litter picking’ for the Paras, so there was no way we’d be getting into any trouble.

  Yet there was a crucial difference between almost getting shot in Iraq and almost getting shot in Afghanistan. During the early stages of the Iraq conflict, we knew who the enemy were, and we could see who was shooting at us. In Afghanistan, you’d get engaged and not have a clue where the shot had come from.

  It was partly due to the terrain in the Green Zone, but increasingly down to the sneaky-beaky way the enemy operated. Being shot at and not being able to shoot back was a real pain in the arse. And it felt very good to have slotted that RPG-gunner, and to have beaten back their attack.

  At 0200 the ANA guy who had done a runner returned to the base. He had to knock on the front gate to get let in. He didn’t even have his weapon on him. It was mind-boggling. He’d bolted into the hostile darkness without even his gun. His mates bawled him out for being a useless bloody soldier, I guessed, although I couldn’t understand a word of what was said.

  For twenty minutes after he’d legged it no one had been manning the sangars, as the sentries were too scared to go up again. I guess they feared I’d pull another stunt with a jet. During that time the fort was unguarded, and I expected the enemy in through the gates at any moment. I knew I shouldn’t have brought that F-16 in so low: it was about thirty feet above the walls. But I just couldn’t resist it. The ANA lot probably knew by now that’s what I did for a living. Maybe that guy had run off into the Green Zone to tell his Taliban mates: We have a super-JTAC in the base — get the orange jump suit ready!

  I knew that JTACs got put where the threat was greatest — that was our role. It’s what we trained for.

  It was being left here alone that I couldn’t stomach.

  Nine

  DREAMING OF A MAGNERS ON ICE

  I woke at 0530 slumped against the HESCO wall. The last thing I could remember was smoking a tab at 0400, and wondering when the fucking sun would get a move on. I must’ve dropped off.

  There was no stand-to with the ANA, so I got on the TACSAT to FOB Price. The patrol had left at first light, so they should be with me any time soon. An hour later there was the growl of engines, and a convoy of vehicles pulled to a halt outside the gates.

  I had never been so relieved to see a bunch of British squaddies in all my life. It wasn’t Sticky, Throp and Chris and my FST wagon, but frankly I’d have been happy to see Dad’s Army coming over the hill. It looked like I wouldn’t be swopping my desert combats for an orange jump suit any time soon. Top job.

  The patrol consisted of twenty 2 MERCIAN lads, under the command of Lieutenant Greg McLeod, an absolute monster of a bloke. He made Throp look positively weedy. Greg might have been monstrous, but you couldn’t have met a nicer bloke. He didn’t have a bad bone in his body. He was so nice I reckoned I’d have fancied him, had I been the red-nail-varnish-wearing type. Greg and I sat on some empty wooden pallets, as his lads took the piss out of the situation that I’d been left in. A lone Tommy with a couple of mags of ammo and his Afghan bum-pals — it was loads of that kind of thing.

  By the time the lads had finished ripping the piss, pretty much all of my anger was gone. You had to see the funny side. That was the thing with the British Army: your average soldier dealt with the very worst of situations by constantly taking the piss.

  The patrol wasn’t going anywhere, so I took the chance to get some much-needed kip. I woke a couple of hours later to a mouthful of choking dirt. We were in the midst of a howling sandstorm, and muggins here had been sleeping with his mouth open. As I coughed and spat, Greg had a good laugh.

  ‘Bommer, mate, can you imagine getting your hands on a Magners on ice,’ he remarked, in his booming voice. He mimed pouring the bottle into a glass and taking a long pull. ‘Imagine it, mate. Now. In your fist. A chilled Magners.’

  The triangular-shaped base had no shade whatsoever. All there was to drink was bottled water that had been half boiled in the heat. From that moment onwards I became obsessed with the idea of a Magners on ice. Not a day went by when I didn’t think of it, plus I dreamt of it at night.

  Once the sandstorm was over I asked Greg if I could use his satphone to phone the wife. Each platoon carried its own satphone, as part of its ‘lost comms’ procedure. If radio contact went down, the satphone was pretty much a bulletproof back-up. We could use our Army phone cards on the satphones, and Greg was more than happy to oblige.

  It was a big day for Nicola — her twenty-fifth birthday. Before leaving FOB Price I’d managed to order her flowers, chocolates and balloons, all via the internet. You had to love the wonders of modern technology, and I was dying to find out if she’d got them. I went and found me a quiet corner and dialled the number. As soon as the call went through I started to sing her ‘Happy Birthday’, and we both ended up laughing.

  ‘You are good to me,’ she said. ‘I got everything — the flowers are lovely! I’m chuffed to bits. Amazing what you can
do on the internet, even when you’re out in Afghanistan!’

  ‘Well, you just enjoy yourself, birthday girl.’

  ‘So, what’ve you been doing?’ she asked. ‘Been up to anything new?’

  I just told her it was the same-old same-old. But then added, ‘Tell you what, do me a favour and buy a crate-load of Magners cider, and stack the fridge full of it. A crate, mind. I want one in a pint glass full of ice, just as soon as I get home.’

  Nicola said she’d get on to it. I came off the phone feeling dead happy. It was amazing what a call home could do for your spirits. A few hours back I’d been convinced I was going to end up kidnapped or dead. Now, all was good with the world. Family: it’s crucial, as far as I’m concerned.

  I always kept five minutes of my weekly phone card ration to phone my mum and dad. And every other day I’d get a letter off to Nicola and the nippers. Nicola teased me that they were full of spelling mistakes. I’d written those letters in the heat and dust of an Afghan desert in the middle of a war, yet she had the neck to moan about the spelling.

  Over lunch of some boiled ratpacks Greg briefed me on the company’s plans. The assault to retake Adin Zai was scheduled for two days’ time. My FST would pick me up en route to the attack. Greg’s platoon would remain with me at PB North, to deter any attacks on the base.

  The following morning I was ordered to move down to PB South, which Intel suggested was now the enemy target. The British soldiers who were located there came to fetch me in a couple of WMIKs. They were part of the ‘omelette’ — Operational Mentoring and Liaison Teams — programme, tasked to train our Afghan allies.

  I was wounded to be leaving the 2 MERCIAN lads, until I realised that PB South was right on the banks of the Helmand River. I got a short briefing on the base — which was a carbon copy of PB North — ditched all my kit, and jumped in the river fully clothed. It was deep and the current was fast, but it was fantastic to cool off and give the uniform a good scrubbing.

  That night I got allocated some air. I had a French Mirage, call sign Simca Three One, flying air recces over the darkened terrain. I was up in one of the sangars chatting to the pilot, when I noticed a couple of furtive figures below. They were moving along one wall in the direction of the hydro shed — a tin shack that housed a hydroelectric generator.

  I got my night-vision on to them, and it turned out to be two of our Afghan soldiers. I watched them disappear into the hydro shed. What they were up to, skulking around in the dark? Were they planting a bomb or something? I got the night-vision on to the one window, but at first I couldn’t make out a thing in there.

  Finally I realised that I was spying on a couple of Afghans who’d gone for a good hump in the privacy of the tin shed. I started hurling rocks, but after several, clanging hits, I realised that there was no stopping them. So be it, I thought. Each to their own.

  I opened my peepers at 0250 and got my kit packed away. The omelette boys gave me a lift to PB North, where the 2 MERCIAN lads were just stirring. We had two platoons laagered up in the desert, just short of Rahim Kalay, and two platoons here at PB North. Everyone was wired for the coming assault, and no one had slept much.

  I had one ear on the TACSAT, monitoring the air and seeing if any warplanes became available. If they did, I wanted them over our lads in the desert as a protective umbrella. Whilst doing so I got chatting to a Sergeant Mikey Wallace, a Royal Artillery bloke attached to 2 MERCIAN. He asked me what I did and I explained that I was the JTAC. I asked him the same, and he told me he was the LCMR Operator.

  ‘What’s an LCMR?’ I asked.

  ‘Lightweight Counter-Mortar Radar,’ he told me. ‘Basically, I locate mortars when the enemy fires them. I’ve got a radar-like gizmo that does the business. Gets it narrowed down to a ten-figure grid.’

  Mikey sounded like a pretty useful bloke to know. Prior to now he’d been stuck in Camp Bastion, and we’d got him allocated to us because of the mission to retake Adin Zai. He had a TACSAT, so we swapped frequencies and call signs.

  ‘This is how we’ll work it,’ I suggested. ‘If you get a mortar signal, give me a call to warn the lads. And pass me the ten-figure grid. Then I’ll take a look from the air.’

  Mikey nodded. ‘Will do, mate.’

  ‘There’ll be a lot of traffic on my frequency between me and the jets,’ I added. ‘But if it’s a mortar grid it’s crucial, so just cut in.’

  ‘Right-oh,’ he confirmed. ‘I’ll be doing my stuff from PB North. I’ll keep you posted from here, mate.’

  At 0500 the FST wagon pitched up. Throp, Chris and Sticky gave me a chorus of how’re you doing, Bommer, mate? The pisstaking bastards.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I replied. ‘Great time I’ve been having with me bum-pals here on me tod.’

  I dumped all my kit beside the Vector, and the four of us started talking through the coming mission. The brief was to remove the enemy from Rahim Kalay and then Adin Zai, pushing them further east into the Green Zone. As with the previous assault, we would be on the high ground overlooking the battlefield.

  ‘There’s Intel coming down that the enemy know the “tank” on the high ground controls the air,’ Chris added. ‘And that it’s calling in the bombs.’

  ‘That’ll be us, then,’ I remarked.

  ‘They know what we’re doing,’ Chris continued, ‘so they’ve more than likely planted mines on the high ground.’

  ‘Anyone know if the wagon’s mine-proof?’ asked Sticky.

  All four of us kind of shrugged

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ Throp grunted. ‘Drive over one.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t,’ said Sticky.

  ‘Aye, me an’ all,’ I said.

  And that was it — we were good to go. We were 1.5 clicks from the line of departure for the assault. We had to be up on the high ground before 0700, zero hour for the attack. The lads had identified a small re-entrant (a kind of cutting) on the ridge where we could position ourselves in overwatch, but still have a little cover.

  With Throp helping me, I went to strap my Bergen on the outside of the Vector. There was little room in the back, what with all our gear. It was around 0640, and just as I was attaching the pack there was a series of massive explosions over towards the Green Zone. A firefight had kicked off somewhere in the direction of where we were heading.

  I left Throp holding my pack, and dived in the rear of the wagon. I didn’t give a damn about that Bergen any more. I wanted air cover like yesterday.

  ‘Widow TOC, Widow Seven Nine. Sitrep: troops in contact, request immediate CAS.’

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Widow TOC. Wait out.’

  It was still thirty minutes away from my first ASR (Air Special Request) that I had booked for the mission. Widow TOC had to be checking what platforms they had available and in the air.

  ‘Move out,’ said Chris. ‘We need to get to the demarcation line asap, to get eyes on the contact. Fuck the mines, if there are any!’

  Throp wrung the Vector’s neck, and we bounced and cannoned our way into the open desert. En route we got a sitrep from the OC. The enemy must have clocked the 2 MERCIAN lads as they moved in towards Rahim Kalay. By the time our platoons had reached the line of departure, they were well ready. From out of nowhere the enemy had opened up with a savage mortar barrage. In the time it took our wagon to hare its way across the desert, they’d got the fifth round in the air and zeroed in on our positions in the Green Zone. It was mayhem.

  The lads were shit scared of those mortars. At the same time they were being hit by automatic weapons and sniper fire, and RPG rounds. The OC made it clear that he wanted us up on the high ground, so we could start smashing the enemy from the air.

  Two minutes after setting out from PB North we pulled up on the ridge line. Luckily, Throp hadn’t driven over any mines — or not ones that had exploded, any road. I stuck myself out of the Vector’s turret to get eyes on the battlefield. As I did so, the first thing I noticed was the howl of an incoming
mortar. Throp hadn’t even managed to find a parking space when the round smacked into the desert a hundred metres beyond us. It wasn’t bad for a first shot. From the howling of the mortar rounds there had to be more than one tube in action. And with the firefight raging right below us the battle noise was deafening.

  ‘Widow TOC, Widow Seven Nine, where’s my air?’ I yelled into the TACSAT.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Widow TOC. Dude One Five and Dude One Six in your overhead in eight minutes.’

  I had a pair of F-15s inbound. The F-15 can achieve two and a half times the speed of sound at altitude. That was how I was getting the jets overhead only ten minutes after they’d been scrambled.

  I put a call through to the jets. ‘Dude One Five, Widow Seven Nine, do you copy?’

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, this is Dude One Five, I have you loud and clear. Inbound your position seven, repeat seven minutes. Standard loads and ninety minutes’ playtime.’

  ‘Standard loads’ meant a regular ordnance package for an F-15, and I had them overhead for ninety minutes. That should be more than enough bombs and time to knock seven bales of shit out of the enemy. Now we just had to find them.

  ‘Sitrep: I have three platoons in the Green Zone at grid…’

  BOOM! The last words were lost in the roar of an explosion as a mortar ploughed into the dirt not twenty metres short of us. Time to get moving. As Throp reversed like a lunatic across the barren terrain, Sticky was holding on to me to stop me flying out of the Vector’s turret. I tried to continue briefing the F-15s.

  ‘Repeat — friendly grids are 98057238…’

  ‘Break! Break!’ came a voice on the net. ‘Widow Seven Nine, Nine One Charlie. I have a grid for you of that mortar that just fired: 3748567389. Repeat: 3748567389. It’s firing from the south side of the Helmand River.’

  ‘Roger, enemy mortar grid is: 3748567389,’ I repeated to Mikey.

  Mikey Wallace and his mortar-tracking gizmo had come up trumps. It wasn’t a moment too soon. The enemy mortars were bracketing Butsy and his HQ element. The OC and his lads were having to sprint for a new patch of cover every third round that slammed into the dirt, or else they were going to get splatted. Mortars were smashing into the bush twenty metres from them, and Butsy was complaining that trying to command whilst eating dirt wasn’t very easy. There was nothing those poor bastards down in the GZ could do about the enemy mortar teams, for they were well out of their range. Only we could hit them.