‘What? What are they trying to get out here?’ the Major snapped back. Jackson glanced at the officer, who looked dead on his feet.
‘Don’t know sir,’ the 2nd Lieutenant replied. ‘Whatever they can, I think.’
‘Well, we fucking need something. They do know we’re getting the shit kicked out of us, don’t they.’ The 2nd Lieutenant looked up at the CO, and Jackson could see the same terrified look in his eyes that he’d seen earlier.
‘Yes sir, they know.’
All three men turned as one and looked towards the door as they heard the loud bark of a machine gun from somewhere within the compound. There were three short bursts of fire, then a pause, then another longer burst of fire. Jackson took two long steps towards the door and flung it open.
‘Where are you going?’ he heard the Major shout behind him.
‘There’s a sniper out there somewhere,’ he replied. ‘And whoever’s firing that machine gun had just told him where he is.’
Jackson ran through the door and stood just outside the small building, looking around to see if he could identify where the firing was coming from. Another burst of fire rang out from the back of the compound, so he turned and started jogging towards the area. As he ran, he wondered why the firing was coming from the side of the compound opposite the village. The only positive thing that he could think of was that if the sniper was in the village somewhere, which Jackson was fairly sure he was, then whoever did have their head above the parapet should be out of sight of the sniper. That wouldn’t help if another rocket came in, though.
Jackson reached the reinforced wall at the rear of the compound and saw a small group of soldiers gathered by one of the firing positions. He shoved one of them in the shoulder, and when he turned to look at him, Jackson said,‘What’s going on, mate?’
‘Movement over by the ditch, Jacko.’ The soldier gestured with his hand to the area beyond the wall. ‘There’s fucking Taliban moving around, we can see them.’
‘You should be in cover, there’s 107s coming in, for fuck’s sake,’ Jackson said. ‘If they’re not firing at you, you shouldn’t be firing at them.’ He saw the soldier look at him with an incredulous expression.
‘You fucking serious?’
‘No,’ Jackson shot back. ‘I’m fucking Coco the Clown. That could be a fucking shepherd looking for his goats for all you know. And while your boys are trying to plug him, the real Terry is over that way…’ Jackson pointed back towards the village, ‘…lining up another fucking rocket that’s got your name on it.’ The two men stared at each other. For a second, Jackson thought that the soldier was going to take a swing at him, which he wouldn’t have minded because he knew that this would give him a reason to have a swing back. ‘Get your lads under cover,’ Jackson said, keeping his voice deliberately low. ‘Now.’
As if punctuating what he had just said, Jackson heard the sound of another rocket whistling in over his head. His instincts took over and he started to crouch down, pulling the other soldier with him by grabbing his sleeve. The rocket exploded about a hundred metres away from where they were squatting with an ear-splitting thump. Jackson got back to his feet when the concussion wave had washed over them and looked across to where smoke was starting to mushroom up after the explosion.
‘Fuck, direct hit,’ he said more to himself than to the other soldier. He turned to the group who were still standing on the fire step and shouted at them. ‘Get your fucking arses under cover!’
‘Jacko?’ He felt a hand tug his arm. ‘Can you hear that?’
Jackson stood stock still and angled his head towards the smoke. Faintly at first, then with more volume, he could hear screaming coming from the other side of the compound. Lots of screaming. He started jogging towards the area, and as the screaming grew louder, he broke into a run which soon became a sprint.
As Jackson got to a few metres or so of the smoke that was billowing into the air from the latest explosion, he slowed back down to a jog, distracted by something lying on the dusty ground in front of him. It looked like a discarded toy that a child had thrown from a pram, but as he got closer he could see the bloodstain underneath it. Jackson stopped and leaned over to examine it more closely.
It was only when he saw the watch that he realised what it was that was lying on the sand. A severed arm. He looked at the stringy flesh at both ends and a blackened tattoo that was barely visible. A forearm. No hand, no discernible wrist, and nothing above the elbow. It was just a forearm.
Fighting nausea, he looked up towards the column of smoke in front of him. The sound of a man screaming filled his ears. Jackson had done a tour of Bosnia a few years ago, and one morning he’d been woken up by the sound of pigs having their throats cut in the farm just next to their detachment. The screams that the pigs made were exactly the same as the ones he could hear now, except this time it wasn’t pigs screaming. It was a soldier. A British soldier. One of his own.
He walked slowly toward the remains of the bunker that the smoke was billowing from. It looked as if the rocket had hit the flimsy shelter directly. Jackson looked around to see if anyone else was coming to help, but it was just him. He walked past lumps of what looked like roast pork, each of them surrounded by their own stain of blood in the sand. As he got to the remains of the bunker, he could see that the person screaming was the soldier that had been by the watchtower earlier. The one who Jackson had shoved towards the bunker, telling him to take cover. The lad — in reality, only a boy — was sitting against the wall of the bunker trying to get the coils of intestine that were strewn across his lap back into his abdomen. Screaming like a Bosnian pig being slaughtered.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ Jackson muttered as he took in the scene in front of him. Another soldier lay on his back, gasping like a stranded fish, and there were another couple of lads who were flat out unconscious. One of them was missing an arm and for a surreal instant, Jackson wondered if it was his watch that he’d seen just now and whether he should go back and get it.
Jackson flinched as a new noise assaulted his ears, vibrating his eardrums. He crouched instinctively, putting his hands over his ears.
‘What the fuck?’ he said as he felt the noise in his chest. He looked up into the sky in time to see a metal grey fighter jet pass over the FOB at low level, before it sped over the village beyond them. It looked as if it was flying just above the top of the watchtowers. Jackson had been in the military for years and was quite used to working around aeroplanes, but the jet still scared the shit out of him. A few seconds later, a second jet roared over the village, chasing the first one in the scariest game of ‘it’ that he’d ever witnessed. The noise was just as deafening, but Jackson was expecting the second one. He watched as both planes banked around and started to line up for another run over the top of the village, but this time from a different direction.
He turned back to the scene of carnage in front of him, at a loss for what to do first. He could smell a mixture of blood, shit, and cordite. It was so strong, he could almost taste the individual components. Jackson walked across to the unconscious soldiers to try to find out whether they were unconscious or dead. Either way, he knew that there wasn’t a great deal he could do. Jackson reached out his hand and shook one of the bodies lying on the ground by the shoulder.
‘Mate?’ he whispered. ‘Mate? Can you hear me?’
There was no response from the soldier on the ground. Grabbing the material of his uniform, Jackson rolled the soldier over onto his back. As the body rolled, its head lolled towards Jackson who realised that where there was supposed to be a face, there was just a mass of shredded tissue. The only thing that still identified it as a face was a single lidless eye amongst the torn flesh.
‘Oh fuck,’ Jackson said, stumbling away from the body. He got a few feet away from it and fell to his knees before he vomited in the sand. As he knelt, retching, the jets completed a second pass over his head. Jackson didn’t even hear the noise of the planes, or the machine gun
that had opened up somewhere in the distance.
He looked up to see the 2nd Lieutenant from the CP standing next to him, his eyes wide as he took in the scene around them. The officer opened his mouth to say something when there was another ‘crump’ nearby, and one of the reinforced walls shook as it showered dust over the soldiers sheltering behind it.
‘What the fuck?’ the officer said.
‘Sounded like an RPG to me,’ Jackson replied. ‘Not a rocket. No whistle, low level trajectory. RPG, for sure.’
‘What does that mean?’
Jackson looked at the 2nd Lieutenant, who looked as terrified as Jackson felt. Looking at the young officer’s face, Jackson hoped that he was hiding the fear better than his colleague.
‘It means they’re coming.’
40
Brigadier Foster turned himself over in his camp cot, annoyed that he was awake in the middle of the night. He wasn’t sure what had woken him up — there was no tell-tale ache in his bladder that told him it was time for a pee — but since being forced to give up beer when he’d got to Afghanistan, those early morning calls had gradually subsided. He sighed and punched his pillow to try to get more comfortable when he heard a soft knock at his door.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he mumbled, swinging his legs over the edge of his camp cot. One of the few advantages of being a senior officer was that he didn’t have to share a tent with anyone else, but had a small sectioned off living area at the rear of his office. Other than that, it was still a bit shit.
Foster was rubbing his eyes when another soft knock sounded on his door. He got to his feet and crossed the few yards to the door. Opening it, he saw one his Lieutenants standing with his hand raised ready to knock again.
‘Abbot,’ Foster said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. ‘I’m not your dad. If you need me to wake up, knock properly on the bloody door.’ When he saw the look of confusion on the young officer’s face, Foster managed a weak smile. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Er, sir, there’s a situation developing up at FOB Robinson. They took a couple of KIA last night from a sniper, and have been shelled all night.’
‘Last night?’ Foster replied, looking at his watch. It was almost five in the morning. ‘Why am I only hearing about it now?’
‘They’ve only just called it in, sir.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Foster said, more to himself than the Lieutenant. ‘How are we supposed to maintain situational awareness if they don’t call it in?’ The Lieutenant didn’t reply but just looked at Foster. ‘What else?’
‘They’re under attack, sir. Sounds like Terry wants his compound back. They’re now reporting multiple casualties from rockets, and they’re being hit with RPGs and all sorts of stuff.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Foster replied, suddenly very awake. ‘Right, let’s get the seniors out of their scratchers and into my office. Brief in twenty minutes. And Abbott?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Have we got any coffee?’
‘Yes, sir. Brewing now, and it’s the decent stuff before you ask.’
The Commanding Officer’s tent in the hospital was almost full, although there were only four people in it. Colonel Nick watched as the Brigadier took off his rimless glasses, polished them with a cleaning cloth, and put them back on his face. He can clean his glasses all he wants, Nick thought, he still looks like shit. They all did.
They were waiting for the Lieutenant from the Ops Room to come and give them a sitrep. On the other side of the office were Squadron Leader Webb and Major Clarke, deep in conversation about something. All four officers turned as the door opened, and the Lieutenant walked in and stood smartly to attention.
‘Brigadier Foster, sir,’ he barked. ‘Lieutenant Abbott, ready with your sitrep.’
‘Stand easy, Abbott,’ Foster sighed. ‘For God’s sake, just relax would you.’ The Brigadier walked over to the chair behind the folding table that doubled as his desk and sat down. ‘Gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable and let’s see what’s going on.’ He gestured towards the chairs dotted around the office. ‘Grab a seat,’ he continued, looking at the Lieutenant. ‘Including you, Abbott.’
Colonel Nick looked at the senior officer with frustration. He didn’t understand why the Brigadier wasn’t more concerned about the situation. If he was the CO, Nick would have made the Lieutenant stay at attention while he delivered his update, before dismissing him so that he could plan the next phase. The way things were going, they were going to have a cosy little chat while men out on the ground were probably dying. As Nick watched Foster walk across to a chair, he reflected on the fact that the Brigadier wasn’t a doctor — even though he was in charge of the hospital. Stupid decision, in Nick’s opinion. Not that anyone ever asked him for it.
‘Right then, Abbott,’ Foster said when they were all sitting down. ‘What’s the story? And I don’t need a Sandhurst brief. I want to know what we know, and what we don’t know. Okay?’ He smiled at the junior officer. Nick fought hard to keep quiet. It was turning into Santa’s fucking grotto.
The Lieutenant took a deep breath and looked at the notes that he had brought in with him.
‘Last night, just before midnight local, FOB Robinson up in Sangin came under attack from a sniper located in the village. Two dead.’ He looked around at the officers in the room before continuing. Nick could almost taste the tension in the air. Two dead, he thought. Shit.
‘They’ve been under sporadic rocket attack for most of the night. First light,’ the Lieutenant glanced at his watch, ‘around forty minutes ago, they took a direct hit to one of the sangers. But it wasn’t a reinforced bunker, just a normal sangar. Two more dead, quite a few casualties. That’s just from mIRC chat, not a 9-liner. They’re now reporting small arms fire from the village and multiple RPG hits to the exterior walls.’
‘Fucking hell,’ Nick murmured, exchanging a look with Major Clarke who had gone white as a sheet. ’Sounds like Terry wants his house back.’
‘Thank you, Colonel,’ Brigadier Foster said, quietly but sharply and without even looking in Nick’s direction. ‘Not that helpful, really. Abbot, carry on.’
‘Reinforcements wise, there’s not much in the area,’ the Lieutenant continued. ‘There’s a Special Forces unit in the south who’ve been monitoring a location where the Taliban have been operating illegal checkpoints, but it’s going to take them at least a couple of hours to get there, and it’s only a four-man unit scaled for reconnaissance, not kinetic operations.’
‘What about air?’ Brigadier Foster asked. ‘Is there any support from them?’ Lieutenant Abbott looked confused for a second and shuffled through his notes until he found the right page.
‘There’s not a lot that’s close by. There were a couple of Tornado GR4s on their way back to Al Udeid after a run. They were turned around for a show of force, but didn’t have any ordnance and not much fuel. Rotary wing wise…’ he looked for another piece of paper, ‘…two Apaches left here about ten minutes ago, so they should be on location in about twenty minutes. Ops up at Kandahar are trying to scrape together a Quick Reaction Force and a Chinook, and we’ve got a Chinook on the ground here.’
’Sorry, Abbott,’ Foster asked. ‘Did you say we’ve got a Chinook? As in one?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘Where the fuck’s the other one?’
‘It’s stuck up-country. Some sort of technical problem.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Foster replied. ‘They spend more time getting fixed than they do flying. Timeline?’
‘Unknown, sir.’
’So, Colonel,’ Foster said, turning to Nick. ‘Is the TRT ready to launch?’
‘Half of it is, sir,’ Nick replied. ‘Me and Corporal McDonald. The replacement medics are with the other Chinook.’ He saw the Brigadier’s forehead crinkle, so decided to pre-empt his question. ‘R&R, sir. Although the rest of the regular team is due back at some point this morning.’
‘Let me see if
I have that right. I’ve got at least four dead and several wounded from an attack on a FOB that’s still ongoing?’ The Brigadier pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘And I’ve got one Chinook, and a two-man TRT.’ Nick looked at his hands as the Brigadier stared at each man in the room, none of them having the balls to reply. Eventually, the Lieutenant piped up.
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘Why is my single Chinook and half a TRT still on the ground, as opposed to positioning in the area?’ the Brigadier asked. Nick kept his gaze down, even though he was sure the question wasn’t aimed at him.
‘Sir,’ the Lieutenant said, much to Nick’s relief. ‘The OC of the Chinook detachment won’t launch into a hot LZ.’ The young officer looked across at Nick. ‘Not after what happened last time. Apparently, someone back at Air Command wasn’t happy that they nearly lost one of their helicopters.’
Nick saw the Brigadier’s frown deepen before he replied.
‘What exactly does Air Command think that we’re doing out here, I wonder?’ The Lieutenant started to speak, but the Brigadier cut him off. ‘That wasn’t a question for you, Abbott.’ Foster paused for a second, deep in thought. ‘Right, go back to casualties?’
‘Well, that’s not clear, sir,’ Abbott replied. ‘There’s so much chatter about the contact itself that we’ve not got much. They have confirmed four dead, at least. The last mIRC message about casualties just said “multiple”, but didn’t go into any more detail.’
Brigadier Foster looked at the clock on the wall of his office.
‘So there’s been a contact going on since last night, and they’ve not even put a 9-liner in?’ he asked Abbott.
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘Jesus, they must be getting the absolute shit kicked out of them.’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
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