The story in question involved a young soldier who had just arrived at Bastion. Back in the UK, he’d designed a T-shirt bearing the legend “I Joined the Army to Meet Ross Kemp”. It was in his kit bag, along with the rest of his uniform. Having discovered that Ross was in the neighbourhood, he wandered over to the JMOC with his T-shirt and asked for a picture with the big man. Ross was only too happy to oblige, posing alongside the young soldier and his T-shirt. Ali had taken the picture, and Dougie had sent it to the Daily Star.
“We’re getting bollocked for releasing a shot of Ross Kemp,” Dougie said. “It’s ridiculous.”
We were sitting in the late-afternoon sunshine, drinking coffee. Mick had joined us, shaking his head as he stepped out of the office.
“A Chinook has just flown in with another load of multiple amputees,” he said. “And they’re worried about a picture of Ross Kemp. They’ve got no sense of perspective.”
“Exactly,” Dougie said. “Think about all the guys who’ve had limbs blown off. If you put them in a group photo, you’d be shocked. PJHQ wouldn’t want you to see that.”
I thought about the numerous amputees I’d seen at Chetwynd Barracks in Chilwell during my mobilization training. The soldier in the stores, issuing our kit, was missing an arm. The soldier in the headquarters, sorting out all our pay and paperwork, was missing an arm. The ex-Gunner in the suit, giving us a presentation on the importance of insurance, was missing an arm. For all I knew, they could’ve been missing their legs as well, their injuries hidden by their trousers.
“Someone needs to report all these injuries,” Mick said.
I pondered his words. Lieutenant Colonel Mike McErlain had already had a go, sending his hospital diary to the Sunday Mirror – but was that enough? Should it be left at that? Was it the final word on the alarming normality of traumatic amputations at Bastion? Or should the reporting continue as long as the war continued?
I left Dougie and Mick and went to Heroes for some time to myself. It was my birthday, but I hadn’t told anybody. It didn’t feel right bringing it up. Just a few hundred yards away, the hospital was full to bursting point, many of the beds taken by fresh amputees. It was not a day for celebrating.
I bought a coffee – my fifth of the day – and sat in the corner at one of the tables farthest from the television. Jackass was showing on BFBS, the volume turned right up. I took my birthday cards out of my trouser-leg pocket, reading through the messages again. Four of them had arrived that morning, right on time, my family and friends not letting me down. Normally I read my mail in private, but that afternoon it didn’t matter. My fellow coffee drinkers – US Marines, mostly – were too busy watching the movie, laughing at the pratfalls, to notice a sentimental British captain in the corner.
My parents had sent me a card with a picture of a springer spaniel on the front, feigning indifference to a tennis ball right in front of his nose. Inside my mother had written:
Liebster Christian,
For your birthday I wish you everything you dream of and loads of health and happiness too. We are looking forward so much to have you home again soon. The dogs will go mad! I don’t know if this card will arrive in time, but we will be thinking of you every minute of the day (we do that anyway!). And I must not tell you that we will have a bottle of bubbly – that would not be fair!
All my love as always, stay safe,
Your Mum xxxxx
Beneath my mother’s words, my father had also written a message, his sentiments a little more concise:
We are missing you loads here, especially the dogs. Keep your powder dry and don’t let the buggers get you down.
I smiled at my father’s brevity, then put the cards away. On the television, Jackass was coming to an end. For the final scene, the cast had filmed themselves being “blown up” in slow motion, standing in the centre of a lounge rigged with small amounts of carefully placed explosives. Bits of vase, bookcase and piano flew towards the camera, all of the cast gurning for comic effect as the shock wave engulfed them.
Nobody in Heroes was laughing. We all watched the explosion in stony-faced silence, trying to imagine what it would really be like, caught inside the radius of an actual bomb blast.
Maybe some of the Marines already knew.
I went back to the JMOC, thinking about the hospital again, thinking about what Mick had said. Who exactly was going to report all these injuries? The embeds who came through the JMOC got up close and personal with the troops all the time, and they bore witness to their suffering, but it was war reporting on a controlled scale, a microscale. They lived with a unit for a week, they wrote their story, and then they went home. It was fine as far as it went, but it was a very tight focus. There was no sense of relativity. How often was this kind of stuff happening? Were these injuries normal? What was “normal” anyway?
I was due to catch a late flight to Lashkar Gah for a short task, but that wasn’t for another five hours. I still had plenty of time to loiter in the office, in and around the vicinity of the Ops Watch laptop, checking all the hospital admissions for that day:
05.46 Nad-e Ali
45 Commando, Non-Battle Injury: 1 x Cat B*
1st/2nd degree petrol burn 6% of right leg, 2% of left leg
06.37 Nahr-e Saraj
Scots Dragoon Guards, Non-Battle Injury: 1 x Cat A
Chest pains
08.14 Nahr-e Saraj
British Non-Battle Injury: 1 x Cat B
Appendicitis
09.06 Nahr-e Saraj
Scots Dragoon Guards, Non-Battle Injury: 1 x Cat C
Recurring achilles injury/infected tendon
11.31 Nahr-e Saraj
US Marines, dismounted patrol IED strike: 1 x Cat A
Both legs – below knee amp
11.33 Nahr-e Saraj
ISAF civilian, Non-Battle Injury: 1 x Cat A
Dehydration
11.58 Nahr-e Saraj
Afghan civilian: 1 x Cat A
2 x gunshot wounds to chest, gunshot wound to left arm (ISAF not involved)
12.03 Musa Qalah
Afghan civilian vehicle IED strike: 1 x Cat A, 1 x Cat B
Skull fracture, soft tissue injuries to face, right tib/fib open Bilateral lower ext fracture
12.43 Lashkar Gah
British Non-Battle Injury: 1 x Cat B
Torsion, left testicle
12.52 Nahr-e Saraj
US Marines, IED strike: 1 x Cat A
Shrapnel right knee, bleeding
13.49 Sangin
US Marines, dismounted patrol IED strike: 3 x Cat A, 4 x Cat B
Triple amp – both legs, right hand
Shrapnel to face – bleeding
Shrapnel to face – bleeding
Triple amp – bleeding
Shrapnel to face – bleeding
Shrapnel to face – bleeding
Left perforated eardrum, lacerations to the left side of face, possible jaw fracture
15.18 Nahr-e Saraj
C Sqn, Scots Dragoon Guards: 2 x Cat B
Heat Injury x 2
15.23 Nahr-e Saraj South
Afghan civilian males: 2 x Cat A
Gunshot wound to left shoulder
IED – frag injuries to right leg and right arm
17.09 Nad-e Ali
42 Commando, Non-Battle Injury: 1 x Cat C
Severe ankle sprain
17.29 Nahr-e Saraj
S Coy, 1 Rifles: 1 x Cat A
Heat injury and spasms
18.17 Lashkar Gah
B Coy, 4 Scots, Non-Battle Injury: 1 x Cat C
Dislocated patella
19.06 Kajaki,
US Marines, 1 x Cat A
Heat injury
19.55 Nad-e Ali
M Coy, 42 Commando, Non-Battle Injury: 1 x Cat C
Infected red eye
At least the British injuries seemed fairly innocuous – just some heat casualties and a few knocks and sprains. It was the Americans who had taken the real hits, suffering
another God-awful afternoon in Sangin.
For the sake of balance, I had a look at the “credit” column as well. It was always good to know the insurgents weren’t having much fun either:
10.05 Musa Qala
US Marines positively identified 4 insurgents establishing a firing position. Confirmed no civilians in area, then fired 2 Excal rounds (155-mm artillery) onto target, which impacted with good effect. Friendly forces then observed 2 more insurgents approaching the strike site with Soviet-style weapons. Friendly forces called repeat and fired another 2 rounds, which also impacted with good effect. 5 insurgents killed in action (unconfirmed).
19.57 Now Zad
British Apache positively identified 6 x insurgents hiding in a wadi. The wadi is the known location of a weapons cache and the individuals were also exhibiting hostile intent. Apache fired 133 x 30 mm, resulting in 4 insurgents killed in action.
20.30 Nahr-e Saraj
Dragoons Mechanized Infantry Company received small-arms fire from insurgents. Returned fire with small arms and heavy machine gun. No friendly casualties at this stage. The enemy has ceased firing. Believed to be a total of 6 insurgents killed in action.
* * *
The following day was much worse for British troops. A total of nineteen casualties were flown into Bastion, including one fatality. I was able to check Ops Watch in the TFH office at Lashkar Gah that evening. Russ and I had spent the day walking around the base with the camera and tripod, asking bemused soldiers to record messages for Armed Forces Day.* It had been a boring, frustrating process – some of them needed up to ten takes just to smile at the camera and say “Many thanks for all your support on Armed Forces Day, from all of us here in Helmand Province” – but at least it was all for a good cause, highlighting the efforts (and the sacrifices) of the troops in Afghanistan.
05.57 Nahr-e Saraj
IED strike: 3 x US Cat B
Lacerations to face
Lacerations to face
Hearing loss
06.36 Nahr-e Saraj
A Coy, 1 Rifles, dismounted patrol: IED strike
2 x GBR Cat A, 2 x GBR Cat B, 1 x GBR Cat C, 1 x Afghan interpreter Cat C
GBR: frag to lower leg, neck and face
GBR: frag to upper and lower leg
TERP: frag to knee and lower leg
GBR: frag to leg and hip, bleeding heavily, slipping in and out of consciousness, possible broken femur
GBR: frag to shoulder
GBR: frag to lower leg
07.05 Nad Ali
Estonian mounted patrol, IED strike: 1 x Cat A. At 08:20, an insurgent threw a grenade at the patrol: 1 x Cat B.
IED casualty: Contusion, fractured right ankle, suspected internal bleeding
Grenade casualty: frag to upper left thigh, lower left leg and head – a lot of swelling in frag area
08.58: Nahr-e Saraj
A Coy, 2 Royal Gurkha Rifles dismounted patrol, IED strike: 1 x GBR Cat A
Shrapnel to right-hand side of body – conscious, bleeding heavily, severe pain
09.57 Sangin
US Marines Non-Battle Injury: 1 x Cat B (hydraulic pressure on GPR panels gave out, panels fell and crushed arm).
Broken arm and lacerations, swelling and light bleeding
12.42 Lashkar Gah
1 x GBR Cat C non-battle injury
Chronic bilateral knee pain
15.43 Nahr-e Saraj
Task Force Helmand Warthog Group, IED strike:
1 x GBR Cat A, 1 x GBR Cat B
Cat A: chest and side trauma
Cat B: possible fracture to right forearm
16.57 Nahr-e Saraj
Task Force Helmand Warthog Group, 2 x IED strikes:
1 x GBR killed in action, 1 x GBR Cat A and 1 x GBR Cat B
A mounted patrol was conducting security operations 500 m north of Highway 1 when a Warthog struck an IED. The strike resulted in 1 x Cat A and 1 x Cat B. At 17:30, reports of multiple IEDs in the area of strike – could be a possible minefield. Another Warthog strikes a second IED, resulting in death. At 19:48, friendly forces discover another 2 possible IEDs. Later detonated – both had 20 kg main charges.
1st IED: No details on Cat A and Cat B
2nd IED: Lower body amputation – casualty died of wounds.
Declared dead by ground call sign.
*
British Forces Broadcasting Service.
*
Injuries were graded A to C according to severity. Medical Emergency Response Teams aimed to get Cat A classifications – such as traumatic amputees – into hospital within a maximum of ninety minutes, although the vast majority arrived inside the “golden hour”. Cat B injuries needed hospital treatment within four hours, while Cat C injuries could wait up to twenty-four hours.
*
An annual event in the UK, raising awareness of British forces and giving the public a chance to show their support.
Death or Glory
On the evening of 17th June we returned to the base on the outskirts of Gereshk, the scene of our previous stay with the Household Cavalry. It was now home to the 9th/12th Royal Lancers, our hosts for the next twenty-four hours. Russ and I would be shooting patrol footage and interviews for BBC East Midlands Today, broadcasting in the heart of the Lancers’ recruiting patch, while Ali was planning to target some of the local newspapers – Leicester Mercury, Nottingham Evening Post – with photographs and home-town stories.
I slept badly that night. We were staying with ten other soldiers in a narrow room under a ceiling thick with cobwebs. An electric fan stood to the side of each camp cot, whirring in the darkness. It was cooler than I had any right to expect, but it was still too hot. I lay awake for hours, naked inside the faux privacy of my mosquito net, sweating about all the usual stuff that goes through your mind the night before a deployment. At one point, just to add to the psychodrama, a cockroach scuttled across my chest. I ignored it, but then, two minutes later, it crawled across my face. Now it felt like I was in a fucking crypt. I switched on my torch and found the shiny little monster underneath my camp cot, sitting on my trousers. I couldn’t be bothered to kill him – he had nothing to do with this war, and I couldn’t face the crunching sound – so I put a mug over him and went back to “sleep”.
The pitiful bleeping alarm on my digital watch went off at 6 a.m. Soldiers stirred in the half-light. Fortunately, I’d managed to get a few hours’ sleep. I got dressed and took my little friend – he seemed happy enough, nestled inside the mug – out into the vehicle yard, depositing him as far away from the living area as possible. He scurried across the gravel, disappearing into some weeds that were growing up against the perimeter wall.
Maybe I should’ve killed him, but that would’ve felt like bad luck. I had less than four weeks to push until my flight home, and I wasn’t about to start tempting fate. Omens were looming up everywhere, and they were impossible to ignore. I walked back into the living area, where the camp dog – a friendly, underweight golden retriever – nuzzled my leg, looking for a pat on the head. I duly obliged, accidentally treading on his tail in the process. He yelped out in pain, triggering an explosion of bad karma. I felt terrible. No matter that he was OK, quickly seeking out my hand for another pat on the head: the damage was done.
We rolled out of camp after breakfast. I was in the lead vehicle, which didn’t bode well, but at least it was a Husky. Russ and Ali were in the Jackal behind me, getting all their shots and footage of life on Highway 1. We drove for twenty minutes before dismounting on the forecourt of a disused petrol station. Three soldiers stayed with the vehicles while the rest of us spread out in single file and patrolled out into the desert, making our way over to a small compound on a ridge overlooking the highway. It was home to one of the local elders, a bearded man in a white robe who came out to meet us. He chatted to the patrol commander for ten minutes, telling him his woes.
“This country has been destroyed,” he said. “There is nothing here.”
“If you keep talking to us, we can help you,” said the patrol commander. “If we know who the insurgents are, we can stop them. We can help rebuild this country.”
We continued into the desert, performing a large loop through a series of compounds. Children stood in doorways, watching us with the eyes of old men. We gave them boiled sweets, and they became youngsters again, smiling for our cameras, asking for chockalit.
We got back to the vehicles at midday and returned to base for some lunch, weaving through the traffic on Highway 1. This was the beauty of the cavalry ethos – have wagon, will travel. By 12.45 p.m. we were back in the cookhouse, eating chicken pasta and drinking orange squash.
After lunch I interviewed some of the soldiers in the shadeless vehicle yard. It was roasting hot now – around 43°C – but Russ needed to frame his shots with a decent backdrop. Each of the soldiers took their turn standing in front of a Jackal, telling me all about themselves and their work in Afghanistan.
“I’m from Loughborough,” said the first one, a young trooper called Toby.
“Really?” I said. “I used to go to school in Loughborough.”
He stared at me for a moment. “Actually, I’m from Essex. I just live in Loughborough.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “What do you miss about Loughborough?”
“Uni chicks,” he said. “And getting tanked up.”
“OK,” I said. “We’ll probably leave that out.”
“No worries.”
“So what do you do out here?”
“I’ve got two jobs,” he said. “I drive the Jackal for the boss, and I’m the point man on the patrols.”
“What’s that like?”
“It’s scary being the point man, because obviously you’re the first man into contact, but it’s also quite rewarding. It’s been hairy at times, but that’s what you expect. That’s what you join the army for.”
All the soldiers I interviewed said they were glad to be out here. Some of them even spoke with relish about the opportunities for combat.
“The tour’s been really good,” said Sam, a lance corporal from Nottinghamshire. “It’s been lairy in some places, and quiet in other places. It’s the same with every tour.”
Combat Camera Page 17