The Crossroad

by Mark Donaldson, VC

  People were rushing from building to building, and we picked up another three enemy fighters in the bazaar. Throughout the day we were flushing the bulk of them out at the other end of the green. Barry, my good mate who’d been injured during the big ambush in 2008, was finally back with us after three years of rehab. He’d passed all the tests, even though he still had a limp. Barry was on a hill over two kilometres away. He had a 7.62-calibre machine gun, or what’s known as a MAG 58. He was providing cut-off by fire to the northern end of the village so the insurgent squirters could not escape. Crackles of gunshot were ringing out through the valley, and we picked up more enemy fighters trying to escape by swimming across the river.

  That night, the main target in the area had risen above the ‘threshold’ and we knew where he was. The STD had worked, by prompting him to act. Within the following days, Bruce wanted me to run the team, which not a lot of patrol commanders will do. It was a big step. It took me back to the days when I’d be following Dad and Brent through the bush or across a river. It’s easier being number two, watching your big brother make mistakes and finding a better way for yourself, but a lot harder to be number one. I couldn’t do anything until guys were feeding information up to me, being my eyes and ears. It’s a real two-way street.

  I was nervous but focused when we flew in. When I compare the feeling of being in combat in 2012 with my early trips to Afghanistan, there’s a big difference. This time I had a much better awareness of what was happening on a larger scale. When I was still a scout, I was focused on minute details that I had to take care of for the patrol. My heart rate would tend to go up, and this affected my fine motor skills, so I would have to place all my attention on doing the little things correctly. By 2012, when I was a lot calmer, these fine motor skills were automatic. I could do more tasks without thinking about them. In a way, I could sort of filter them out. My mind, now, was on piecing together information to get a picture of the entire battle space. And if that led to better decisions, it would increase my survivability and my team’s. I guess that’s what experience is all about.

  We went across the river to where those insurgents had been swimming the previous days. As we came in to land the layout of compounds and other teams’ positions was clear; once we dropped below the tree line, however, the vegetation was thick and it was almost like being in a jungle. Trying to spot other teams and potential enemy is a difficult task. A fighter stuck his head around a corner. I took a shot at him and he ran. We fired a couple of shots. He made it around the edge of the building. When Nick saw that he had a weapon, he shot him. We made it to the house we were targeting, and found a hidden cellar full of guns, chest rigs and ammunition. The occupants complained that they’d done nothing wrong, but we explained that the deal was pretty clear: ‘The helicopters and soldiers will stop coming when you stop working with the Taliban.’

  It was a straightforward job, and we were back at camp by lunch. Bruce and the squadron sergeant major congratulated me for the patrol’s conduct. Compared with being a trooper in someone else’s patrol, I felt great satisfaction for not only having done the job as a soldier but having looked after the men I was responsible for.

  Soon after, I was given another job. This time it was because Bruce had tweaked his knee and decided to give it a few days’ rest. I had to organise thirty-four blokes to go on three helicopters – initially four, but one had broken down, giving me a last-minute challenge – and target a couple of Taliban go-betweens in the remote north-west of Uruzgan. These men were running drugs and weapons with some Iranians who visited them a lot. I felt calmer for the previous experience of leading a team, and we picked up nine armed insurgents, a PKM machine gun with hundreds of rounds, and a fully assembled IED. Devil picked up a target on his own, and intelligence showed us a few days later that we got the one we were after. Again, Bruce was complimentary about my leadership. But after we’d been on the front foot for most of the trip, every aspect of our soldiering was about to be put to the test.

  *

  We were getting into late June, the last few weeks of our 2012 trip. Bruce was often awake early, looking at pictures from the Predators, supplementing his own knowledge from the intelligence network he’d developed over the years. One early morning I stopped by the command centre to see what potential targets were up for the day. As I walked in Bruce was up the front, tracking five or six different televisions all with different images on them. The radio chatter between the JTAC and the unmanned drones was intermittently breaking up the morning greetings. Within moments Bruce’s hard work had paid off and he got a good picture of a target we were after in the north-west. He said, ‘We’re rolling.’

  The insurgents were situated in a steep-sided valley, more like a gorge. The satellite and Predator footage hadn’t revealed how near-vertical the walls were, and as we landed we were taken by surprise by several Talibs shooting at us from positions hidden in the rocks. Our patrols were dropped off at several points around the valley, and we leapt off and ran for the nearest cover. In one of the other patrols, there was a comical moment when a young bloke was racing away from the gunfire with Blaine ‘Didds’ Diddams, another PC. Didds had bad hearing and a great laconic sense of humour. The young guy kept yelling, ‘We’re getting shot at!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘We’re getting shot at!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘WE’RE GETTING SHOT AT!’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Didds said. ‘Good thing we’re running, then.’

  One enemy machine gunner was above us on cliffs that were like an escarpment in the Blue Mountains. The echo from his gunfire was making it even harder to work out where he was. One of our guys kept exposing himself to attract shooting, but aside from knowing the machine gunner was about 100 metres away and high above us, we couldn’t pinpoint him and couldn’t assault him without taking too much of a risk. The JTAC couldn’t safely talk-on a helicopter, as we were below the shooter and the helos could easily miss him and hit us. Meanwhile, we were hearing the excited chatter of enemy fighters closer to us. I told our patrol to watch a footpad leading out from the escarpment below us and shoot anyone who ran out.

  Another patrol, led by a PC named Brock, tried to get around the machine gunner and take him from higher than where we were, but he turned his gun and started shooting at them, nearly hitting them. They threw a grenade that bounced near him, but it didn’t do anything. A decision was made to call in two helicopters, so they dropped some purple smoke for the Apaches to target. The first Apache came blasting into the area. As per their usual operation, Apache 1 came in first, with Apache 2 protecting it. They did two gun runs. The rocks were exploding from the 30-millimetre rounds, not far away at all, chips of rock flying past us. Then Apache 2 came in, having been told to hit the same target. But instead of shooting at the base of the smoke, it shot at the top, which had drifted away from the target and very close to Brock’s team. My throat swelled up with dread. I could see the exact spot Brock was and that is where all the Apache’s ordnance was pounding into. I said to Bruce, ‘They’re fucken dead, they’re getting hit.’ I could hear the urgency in Brock’s voice on the radio: ‘Call them off! Call them off!’ Then it went silent.

  Bruce tried to contact Brock. I wasn’t expecting to hear anything. I thought they were done. Thankfully, he got through. They were lucky to have been behind a boulder. Later on he told me that it was one of the scariest things that has happened to him. I told him it was one of the worst things I had seen. One of Brock’s team members got some shrapnel in the leg, but still, we were super-lucky. It was beyond fortunate. The Apaches were told to fuck off back to Tarin Kowt.

  We now had a better understanding of what we were up against. This gorge was an incredibly dangerous area with the enemy already in position. Not only was it steep and craggy, but there was an unusual amount of vegetation and nooks and crannies. The air was thicker than up on the plateau, and strongly scented w
ith the straggly pines that grew in the gorge and gave the enemy cover.

  It looked like we had to take them on without air support. The enemy had a clear view from high up, almost all the way to TK – in summer, the mornings were still and clear and the afternoon heat haze hadn’t yet fallen over the land – so they could see any choppers coming long before they arrived. The Talibs who were up high had a lot of advantages over us.

  Brock’s team, settling down after nearly being taken out by the Apaches, went to an overwatch position. The enemy machine gunner hadn’t fired for a while now, so we crept up towards him, darting from rock to rock. Then he opened up on Nick and Devil and their team, lower down. I moved to another big bunch of rocks with two of our newer guys, recently off their Reo cycles. Rounds whizzed over our heads. That machine gunner had us dialled in.

  We got ourselves better positioned, but the situation was so hairy that it was decided to call the Apaches back again. They’d done some damage to us, but if we could talk them in they still looked like the best way of dislodging that machine gunner. Apache 1 did another gun run, but again had trouble identifying the spot. Bruce told us to put some rounds up there to mark his position, which we did, kicking up some dirt and rocks in plumes around where we thought he was. The Apaches went in and dropped their last ordnance on him, including a Hellfire missile. Rocks were whizzing everywhere. He went quiet. Finally, it seemed like we’d got him.

  He’d been holding us up from our main objective, which was to flush the other fighters out of the gorge and ambush them on their way out. But they were well dug in and concealed. The other tactical issue was that while we were dealing with this machine gun it had given the other fighters in the gorge plenty of time to establish defensive measures against us.

  I was with Bruce, halfway down the side of the valley trying to identify the enemy positions, when we heard Craig on the radio.

  ‘Has anyone seen my dog?’

  It’s one of the worst questions you can hear. One of the young guys said he’d seen Quake, but then some AK rounds went off. Craig said again, ‘Has anyone seen Quake?’

  I didn’t see it, but Quake had gone around some rocks and found two enemy fighters in an ambush position. He latched onto the first one, but the other had shot him through the chest. He’d spoilt their ambush and showed us where they were, but had paid the highest price.

  Most of the patrols didn’t know that yet. We were busy establishing an ambush position. I moved to a little ledge on the steep slope of the gorge that was covered in a lot of scree. Down below I could see what was effectively a big, naturally occurring rock tent, almost like a bunker, big slabs of rock leaning against each other. From inside, AK fire and grenades were coming out. Bruce and I saw a bloke, who had been startled by Quake and the advancing patrol, run from the area and we started shooting at him. He wore a white robe with a chest rig, and carried an AK. He stopped behind a rock. Bruce and I shuffled along the cliff to get a better angle, and waited till he came out. Our aim was to hit him as soon as he broke out, but when he emerged we missed him again.

  ‘I’m going,’ I said. I climbed over a rock, Bruce behind me. The Talib in the white robe broke out along a path. I shot at him and he stopped behind a big bush, which I pointed out to Bruce when he caught up. We each fired twenty rounds rapid. I could have sworn I saw him go down. We were elevated, but only 30 metres away. Another enemy fighter then broke out, and we shot at him until he went down. A third, wearing blue and black, barrelled out towards a big cubic rock and set himself up to ambush our guys who were lower down. He didn’t know we were there, and we shot him from above. The other team members were in position to assist at this stage. Two more enemy fighters came into the same position and also got shot. We thought we had five EKIA down there.

  There were still insurgents scattered through the valley. I saw a head pop out from behind the scree, and shot at him but just missed. Shit, I thought. As I took my next shot he ducked away towards a little concealed cave. Blue was standing on top of it, and a burst of machine gun fire came out. I was annoyed; I was pretty sure it had come from the fighter I’d just missed. We went down to clear the insurgents we’d shot already, and had a search of the places where they’d been hiding. We stayed as quiet as possible, as we knew there was still at least one of them at large.

  Blue threw a grenade into the cave. A second later, it came flying back out. Blue ran for cover, but the shrapnel nipped him in the ear. The man in the cave was obviously willing to fight to the death and was well hidden and armed. He was firing sporadically out of his position. He hadn’t been picked up by any of the Predators’ cameras, which were still roaming high above. We discussed how to get him, and it was decided that one group would assault the cave while we would provide support.

  We pushed back up to the cube-shaped rock. I was looking towards the cave, and thought if I climbed a bit higher up the slope and got behind some thin curtains of vertical rock for cover, I could get a good angle on the small opening he was firing from. Bruce agreed. I only had to climb up about 15 metres of open ground on the loose scree. As I crept up, I heard two shots and felt a hard slap at the top of my left thigh. Instantly it went numb. The second shot hit the ground right next to my foot. If it had hit, it would have done a lot of damage to my foot, so I was lucky.

  The force of the bullet that hit me spun me around on the spot. I grabbed my thigh, moved back down the hill to the nearest rock, took cover and got on my radio.

  ‘He got me.’

  One of the boys heard this and, thinking I’d been seriously hit, shouted some expletives over the radio network.

  I’d never been hit in battle before, so this was a new experience. My thigh wasn’t too badly hurt, but the emotions rose up, the red mist. I was consumed by a wave of anger. I rushed back down towards Bruce and yelled, ‘Someone fucken shoot that cunt!’ I wanted to run into the cave myself and get him. ‘I’m gunna fucken shoot this prick in the face!’ I was taking it personally – this was the same fighter I’d missed shooting before, and part of me was angry with myself. I completely lost my cool.

  Bruce calmly told me to get back behind some rocks for cover. As I got down, he steadily talked me back into normality. My leg had a dull pain throughout, with pins and needles, but once I settled down I thought it couldn’t have been too bad because I could still move about.

  Bruce let the boys know I’d been hit, and they were putting more fire into the cave. Our patrol medic came up and told me to roll over. Bruce looked and said it was just a hole, no problem.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

  ‘Let me do my job,’ the medic said.

  Later, we laughed at my reaction to getting hit. You were always learning something new about yourself.

  At this point, we’d lost a dog and two of us had been clipped. We weren’t prepared to take more risks just to get one Talib. Bruce decided to call in fast air, which would be one of the first times the Regiment had asked for that option in two years.

  It was late in the afternoon by then, and our team leaders decided we would stay the night and get whatever enemy were left in the valley. We pulled back up the hill and received our 24-hour packs, water and ammo from a helicopter drop. I fell on my arse a few times, and the medic said I should think about going out with the resup that was due to arrive a short time later with some water, ammo and our packs.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not worth losing your leg over, if you get an infection.’

  Probably unwisely, I ignored his advice and stayed with the team, but my arse was throbbing and my leg was stiffening up. I didn’t want to show the others that I was struggling, and pushed through the pain, telling myself it wasn’t a bad wound, just a foreign body in my leg.

  The jet came and bombed my old mate in the cave. I rediscovered that sense of assurance you get from fast air. That screeching approach, tearing the sk
y, and then the crack as it broke the sound barrier. I could feel the explosion of the bomb right through me – it’s physical more than auditory, like being next to the bass at a big concert but deeper and more menacing, rocking your whole body with its effect. Smoke, shrapnel and rock flew out from the impact site. Our blokes checked it out, and then called for another. ‘Clear hot.’ Another bomb came in and finished the job.

  By then it was 5.30 pm and getting dark. We decided to lock down both ends of the gorge and leave it till morning to check the contact site. We set up on the edge of the gorge, with the other patrols readying to ambush them if they tried to walk out. None of us was sleeping, and we weren’t talking. At about 10 pm, one of the teams heard some enemy talking and the sound of rocks crunching nearby. Two insurgents with weapons were trying to sneak past.

  One of them let out a yelp, and then there was a metallic bouncing noise. He’d dropped his gun down the gorge. At that point, the other patrol shot him and his mate. Didds’s crew then got another trying to sneak out further down the valley.

  By morning, they were all gone. We’d got nine EKIA in a fight that had started in mid-morning and gone on for more than twelve hours. The bombs from the jet had cleaned up the guy who shot me. I went down to his cave and looked up to where I’d been climbing the slope. He’d had an absolutely clear line at me. I was really lucky.

  We found a lot of weaponry and ammunition, as well as a pair of state-of-the-art American NVGs. In that tent-like rock formation we found a cache of IEDs, rockets, mines, guns and launchers. The IEDs, we noticed, had been modified so they carried hard graphite rather than metal shrapnel – so they wouldn’t be picked up by a metal detector. There was also some evidence of the Iranian connection our prior intelligence had told us about.

  Even though it seems like it was just about numbers and getting as many insurgents as possible there were many, many jobs when we would have to spend a lot of time sifting through individuals trying to determine who was who to pick out the guys we were after. Sometimes it took a lot of gumshoe work by our operators. Sometimes the body language when being asked questions would be enough to bring an insurgent back to base and start the detainee process. There were times when guys were well within rights to engage an insurgent, but decided not to and they were detained and trialled instead. It can be a tough call on whether or not to take a shot and one that has to be made in milliseconds.