Authors: Chantelle Taylor
There is a long pause. Everyone in the ops room is desperate for the right outcome. In less than a minute, HQ is back on the net: permission is granted. We all breathe a collective sigh of relief.
Maj. Clark’s decisiveness has saved the day yet again, his tone on the net demanding the answer that he eventually gets. This situation has perfectly illustrated the reason why a person becomes an infantry company commander. Our OC’s confident manner reassures us all that we are in more-than-capable hands.
The vehicle denial accomplished, our troubled convoy is moving again, finally limping into the PB well past midnight. Our medical team set about assessing our unexpected casualties. This time there is no blood or gore to patch up, only potential spinal problems and possible fractures.
With no life- or limb-threatening injuries, I advise the boss, ‘Sir, a casualty lift at first light is possible, and no MERT is required straight away.’ This affords Maj. Clark some time, as I further explain that these men are no longer capable of fighting.
The boss will always have the final say in the casevac of his men, as sometimes good medicine can mean bad tactics. The tactical situation must always have first consideration; extracting casualties in the middle of a firefight will potentially almost always create more casualties. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but the best for the group is not always best for the individual. Our pilots will fly into anything – again, the line between brave and stupid has yet to be defined by soldiers, and that’s the way we like it. A bureaucratic train of thought is best left in the office; on a PB, everyone must remain flexible, as plans may change in an instant.
Keeping all this in mind, just as I always do, I continue my current report to Maj. Clark, ever mindful that when I advise the boss in such instances, I do so as his subject matter expert (SME). As OC, it is his responsibility to weigh the pros and cons, and then to make the decision. I have learnt to always consider the tactical situation before coming to my own conclusion about casevac. Maj. Clark knows that I do this, and it reassures him.
‘Sgt T,’ he says now, ‘we will evacuate the guys at first light. Have your team ready.’
‘Roger, sir. Thanks.’
Once again, I feel that I am exactly where I’m meant to be, doing exactly what I’m meant to do. I used to get frustrated when soldiers from other armies asked why I opted to volunteer for tactical courses as a medic. When I qualified as an instructor in urban operational warfare in late 2007, it wasn’t so that I could count up the hundred or so bruises I’d sustained, nor was it to marvel at the strange looks I would receive from the men of the Jordanian military with whom I found myself working alongside. I didn’t go through that training just to teach other medics how to clear houses or villages. I did it to get a better understanding of potential casualty choke points, learning how an infantry company operates in a built-up urban area. I knew that the days of conventional warfare were over, and I welcomed any tactical course that would enable me to understand the ramifications of the decisions that I made on the ground. The courses were far from easy; however, there were always those who struggled with the very basics of soldiering far more than I did. This was an area I revelled in, and whenever it was my turn to carry the machine gun to give fire support, I ensured that I never wavered. I still do. Those courses were time well spent.
Using everything that I learnt, I now advise my peers and junior medics on how to best use difficult built-up terrain to evacuate casualties, and, more importantly, on how not to become a burden on the infantry company we supported. This includes everything we do – from MARCH-P to casevac, to maintaining supplies, and so on. That last thought brings me back to the wish list that I had begun to write earlier in the day. There’s talk of a helicopter resupp, so I get my head around what we will need if our casualty rate continues at the current pace.
I finish the wish list, eventually hitting my roll mat in my pit space well past two in the morning. My team and I are out on the ground tomorrow, so we need rest. And yet, seemingly within seconds of closing my eyes, I hear the dreaded shout of ‘Stand to!’
‘What the fuck!’ I groan as I get eyes on Kev. I must have slept soundly; it just never feels like enough. With no snooze button to press, like a robot I get up, put on my body armour, and secure the chinstrap on my helmet.
Making my way into the medical room, I find the rest of my team. Good to see that everyone else looks the way that I feel: like crap. Same detail as yesterday. Stand-to is called at times of attack or times of habitual enemy attack; first and last light are favoured, so we get up and take positions that have been allocated to us by the chain of command. I gather my med team, and we wait for a period of time before being given the order to stand down. It’s a routine that’s adopted by every fighting force the world over, with some more disciplined than others, I imagine.
Call to prayer is my call to the yellow multipurpose sharps container. Climbing into the back of the snatch Land Rover, I think about the non-politically-correct army poster that read: ‘No one likes a dirty snatch.’ Of all the things to think of, this lifts my mood as I go about my personal chores.
News from the ops room says that wheels will be up from Camp Bastion shortly, so my team begin to tend the wounded. We have four sorry-looking soldiers, and a night in the cold has not helped their now-rigid bodies. Mild whiplash will feel like a broken neck this morning. We have no means of spinal control, and, as they do with everything else, grunts crack on unless they are physically unable to do so. Making the best use of the equipment that we have, we walk our wounded.
One stretcher is out under the watchful eyes of Sgt Maj. Robertson’s team, who have already secured the routes in and out to the HLZ.
The helicopter, a Sea King, lands and is on the ground no longer than twenty seconds. As it rises, it creates a spiral of dust. This time, I have positioned myself so that I don’t get blasted by the debris from the ground.
Again running back to the PB, I see preparations for a foot patrol are under way. Sean will deploy out this morning. Jen is getting some well-earned rest after her late night. Abbie and I settle in to the ops room, on standby should we be required to deploy out with the QRF.
Daydreaming about what day it is, I doze off in a sweaty pool on my roll mat. Abbie wakes me on account of my snoring. I would normally be a little embarrassed, but in this arena I couldn’t care less. Counting six hours sleep in the last three days, and in a stimulant-free state, I am running on empty. I feel myself getting agitated – my head feels fuzzy, and little things are starting to irritate me. Moving next door to the medical post to chat with Davey gives me a decent escape, but it isn’t long before I am sprawled out on the stretcher, snoring again.
Three hours later, Davey wakes me up, laughing.
‘We have just taken a wee bit of small arms, Channy,’ he says.
I managed to sleep through the attack. Feeling refreshed again, I get the brews on. Rest is a major part of routine, and sometimes, with all chores covered, you take it when and where you can.
THE SHOOTING SEASON
INTELLIGENCE REPORTS FROM HQ REVEAL THAT MORE TALIBAN fighters are heading for Nad-e Ali from across southern Helmand; insurgent activity on the ground has increased significantly. The fresh jihadists coming from the south are happily battling it out with our neighbours, A Company of 5 Scots, who hold the line down in Garmsir. If the fighters survive Garmsir, they skirt around Marjah, stopping only for replenishment of food, water, and ammunition before hitting us.
Nad-e Ali sits extremely close to Lashkar Gah. Defeat here would be a strategic disaster. The so-called shooting season has reached its pinnacle. Our PB is isolated; it’s easy to feel that brigade HQ has forgotten about us.
The threat of one of our helicopters being shot down is now so high that aircraft will only fly in to our PB at night or at dawn. Once on the ground, the pilots don’t hang around; they drop off or pick up, and are airborne within seconds to reduce the chance of an attack. Tactical aviation planners try to make sure that the Chinooks don’t establish patterns when flying. To any observer though, not creating a pattern indirectly creates one. When helicopters come to the base, as explained, it is at night or first thing in the morning, thus creating a pattern.
Most of us in B Company have deduced that we are here for one reason: to make sure the Taliban don’t mount any form of attack on the Kajaki operation. We aren’t a company complete, and our casualty rate is unsustainable. The Kajaki mission has been on the cards for months. We all understand that it’s the main focus of the ‘big picture’ for our brigade, but we know very little about the operation. As with most ops, soldiers on the ground are kept in the dark.
We know the basic aim of the Kajaki mission: the delivery of a third turbine, to get the hydro-electric dam to work at full capacity, providing power to Kandahar and southern Afghanistan. If successful, the operation will be the catalyst to kick-start future development. It will also make history as the coalition’s biggest campaign in the south. The Taliban aren’t a hearts-and-minds organisation. I don’t believe that their fighters at the ground level really know what’s going on, either; they are likely kept more in the dark than we are. Their ‘big picture’ could be very different from ours, and is possibly funded by individuals who have no interest in a ‘better’ Afghanistan.
Every commander likes to throw around the ‘big picture’. Troops on the front line quickly grow to dislike these words. When you are stinking, piss-wrapped with sweat, walking around in seven-week-old pants, eating shit food, and constipated from that shit food, the last thing you want to hear is ‘big picture’.
So, yes, the ‘big picture’ was starting to piss everyone off, including me. Soldiers understand that there is a task to complete, we take our orders, complete our missions, and leave it at that. Save the bullshit part of the mission for dinner parties. In general, troops on the ground want to know two things: (1) when are we going home? and (2) when are our replacements arriving?
Time passes on the PB, and it soon comes to light that we are not alone here in Nad-e Ali as first thought. It’s a relief to find a friendly call sign just about a kilometre away from our own location. The soldiers, special operations reservists, are housed in the old prison, just outside the district centre. Their role in Helmand is to train and mentor the Afghan police. They make up part of the police mentoring team (PMT).
The title PMT, with its potentially humorous connotation of pre-menstrual tension, raises a fair few smiles, so we decide to rename their unit’s call sign, using a moniker of their own – ‘the Throatcutters’ – which sounds far more gnarly. I have no doubt that there will soon be a unit T-shirt available, with ‘Throatcutters’ emblazoned across the front. If not across the front of a T-shirt, maybe on the back of a North Face jacket? All kidding aside, these guys have been operating across Helmand for the last two months; living with the Afghans, their small outposts were smashed on a daily basis.
The happiness of discovering friendly neighbours close by is soon supplanted by our ongoing grim reality. Shock horror as our base comes under attack again, with the gun position on the roof doing most of the heat seeking. Scotty Pew and his men must be putting a sizeable dent in enemy numbers: the Taliban are desperate to take that gun position out. Thankfully, the sandbag-reinforced walls are doing a sterling job in holding the insurgents’ high-velocity rounds at bay. The task of daily rebuilding this reinforcement is a dangerous, back-breaking effort for the lads; however, the benefits far outweigh the negatives. Pew works on a shift system for his men on the roof. The gun teams sleep up there, as movement up and down those steps leaves them wide open to enemy fire. The wall is riddled with holes from incoming 7.62mm.
We receive news that the Afghan police station where we spent our first night has been hit hard: initial reports over the net confirm three casualties. The Afghans are instructed to bring their wounded to our location. Their main compound has taken a couple of direct hits from RPGs. We were there just nights ago; I am beginning to think that Lady Luck plays a big part in all of this. Skill alone doesn’t decide who lives or who dies. Time and place both play a huge part in what happens on the battlefield. Many serving in the military adopt the attitude that if it’s your time, it’s your time – you could be the best soldier in the world, but a stray round or indirect fire (IDF) might just have your name on it. It’s not a pleasant thought, but how else could we do what we do?
These are passing thoughts, and I quickly refocus. I have one medic out on the ground, so there are three of us left, including me. We prepare our aid post for the incoming casualties, every man busy.
I suddenly notice the smell coming from underneath my body armour. It’s not good, but there’s little water, so a decent scrub is almost impossible. Most soldiers don’t mind their own smell. There is definitely a time and a place for girl stuff; I do that when I go home, leaving the baggy, earth-tone clothing in Afghanistan and going back to being normal for a bit.
I can’t imagine anything worse than worrying about trying to look attractive out here. I have never had the patience for it. Thinking of it now, I recall an incident during pre-deployment training when I watched in horror as a scenario based on the ‘escalation’ drill unfolded. A female soldier who was deploying to Camp Bastion as a post/mail orderly (not from my unit I hasten to add) could not engage a target because her fingernails were too long! Taking the incident in my normal relaxed stride, I said,
What the fuck are you smoking?
I was outraged with the usual weak-minded guys around me who seemed to think that it was okay because she was just in charge of the mail. It’s not okay, and it never will be.
The thoughts about body odour and fingernails flash out of my mind as quickly as they flashed in. We wait patiently for the ANP casualties to turn up. When they arrive, they’re ferried straight in. Yet again, they aren’t too concerned that they are receiving treatment from female soldiers. Initial eyes on give indications of one cat-B and two cat-Cs. There are lots of fragmentation wounds to limbs, which is no surprise. On average, a soldier in any type of blast will usually present with over nine injuries, and not all will be catastrophic. Usually the ones not seen are the danger; if I can see it, I can fix it – or at least try to.