Lethal Shot

by Robert Driscoll

  ‘Do the Taliban normally knock?’

  The old man shrugged.

  I said, ‘We need to know who’s here.’

  ‘Just me and my wife.’

  We knew that was bollocks. What else was he lying about?

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘that’s enough reason for me to want to search this place top to bottom. Lads, in you go!’

  You’ve never seen a fella look so worried. But whatever he was hiding didn’t want to be found. After an hour we’d uncovered nothing in the house or the outbuildings. What we did see was a standard of living far higher than was usual in any other compound. It was bloody fishy, but there was nothing to pin on the old guy – yet. We still had one place to search, an air-raid shelter the man had built in his yard.

  By coincidence, the old geezer couldn’t find the key. My patience was wearing thin. I said, ‘You’ve got five minutes. Then you won’t need a key.’

  While the seconds ticked down, I got in touch with Sunray to update him on progress. His party likewise had yet to unearth anything of note.

  ‘What about Ollie’s lot?’ I asked.

  Whatever he said in response I didn’t hear. All anyone heard was the sound of a massive explosion.

  It was the unmistakable sound of an IED. It came from the south. Judging by the plume of dust in the distance, I’d say about 500 metres away. I glanced at my map.

  ‘Christ, that’s where Ollie is.’

  I started to send a bang rep to Steve. Suddenly the radio crackled with the sound of Ollie’s 2ic trying to get off a nine-liner and struggling.

  A nine-liner is the sequence in which you send nine pieces of information to arrange a casevac. Anyone with radio training knows the drill: via a series of letters and sequential numbers you categorise the extent of injuries, your location, how many wounded, how many dead, and so on. For anyone listening who knows the code it’s a microburst of information. For the rest, it’s like listening to a game of Battleships.

  From his voice he was in a bad way. They all were, according to his report. In the end he gave up on protocol and just said, ‘We’ve stepped on something.’

  I immediately got off the radio. Sunray and Command needed the airwaves to speak to the patrol. But I was already lining up my guys. As soon as there was a break in transmission I got onto Sunray.

  ‘We’re closer than you. I’m going over.’

  ‘Roger that,’ Steve said. ‘We’ll be right behind.’

  That’s when I heard the second explosion.

  This one was from the north – Steve and Damo’s location.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  There was silence for about ten seconds. It felt like an hour. Then a voice came back on the air. It was Steve.

  ‘The good news is it was just a goat,’ he said. ‘The bad news is the area is obviously littered with IEDs. We’re not going anywhere very quickly. It’s all up to you now.’

  My instinct was to get everyone running south to help Ollie asap. My training said something different.

  If both those patrols in the middle of nowhere have found IEDs, then what are the odds that we’re surrounded by them as well?

  High. And the lads knew it. They were all itching to get going but there was anger at the risks we’d have to take.

  John the interpreter came up with an idea.

  ‘This old man will know where the IEDs are for sure.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He hadn’t looked at all fazed by the explosions. He knew more than he was letting on. I went up to him and poked him hard in the chest.

  ‘Tell me where the IEDs are buried,’ I made John ask.

  ‘There are no IEDs here,’ he protested.

  I was doing my best to remain professional, but it was hard. While I was speaking to him the radio hissed again. It was Ollie’s man.

  ‘I think there are four serious casualties. No, five. Including our medic.’

  Kaz!

  I was losing my patience. ‘I haven’t got time to play games, old man. Please tell me what I need to know. Men’s lives are at stake.’

  ‘No, no, no, I speak the truth. There are no bombs here.’

  John was insistent. ‘He’s lying, boss. He’s definitely lying.’

  The radio came alive again: ‘I think one of them has just died.’

  At that point our medic for the mission, a Navy lad I’ll call Jonesy, on loan to us from M’lord’s multiple at Taalander, came up to me. ‘Come on, Rob, I’ve got to get over there.’

  ‘You’re right, fuck it.’ I turned to John and said, as coolly as I could, ‘Tell this piece of shit that if he doesn’t tell me where those IEDs are buried I will march his entire family out of this compound, over to Ollie and let them find the mines for us.’

  There was no way in a million years that I would ever have done that. But I needed the old man to believe it. Judging by John’s animated expression I think he embellished my threat even further. Whatever was said, the old man bought the story.

  He said, ‘As long as you stay near my compound and stay clear of the path you won’t tread on anything.’

  John wasn’t satisfied. He said to me, ‘Get your men. This pig is going to lead us to safety whether he wants to or not.’

  Slowly but surely we walked out of the compound, down to a hedge. Beyond it was a weird stretch of land, arid and raised in places.

  ‘It’s a burial site,’ the old man said. ‘Walk through the middle and you’ll be safe.’

  ‘If we’re not, your compound is getting a visit from the Mirages,’ John said. ‘I promise you that.’

  I looked at the map. Ollie’s team were directly opposite, on the other side of this field.

  ‘Fergie,’ I said, ‘what do you reckon?’

  ‘I reckon we fucking go for it.’

  ‘Agreed. Robbie – can you get us there?’

  The nineteen-year-old was already in front of me. ‘I’m on it, Rob.’

  And off he went, at a run, at the same time clearing every inch of ground as best he could. One by one we filed after him, all running not for our lives, but for those of our mates on the other side of the burial ground.

  The second we set off, John’s radio started up. Interpreters are nowhere near as fit as marines but the guy did his best to shout out what he he was getting from ICOM in between panting.

  ‘“The Americans are leaving. We have to catch them before they reach the trees.”’

  This day just gets worse.

  ‘They can see us,’ John said. ‘It’s probably those pigs at the compound.’

  I knew he was right.

  ‘Everyone,’ I yelled into the radio, ‘we have a viable threat around us. Weapons hot!’

  We were running full pelt in heat of 55 degrees, with the possibility of landmines at every step – and now there was the very real danger of being shot at as well.

  Can this fucking day get any worse?

  The answer, I would soon discover, was yes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HAVE I GOT EVERYTHING I NEED?

  I wish being shot at was the only worry on my mind.

  As we sprinted into the unknown across the burial site I was also in contact with Ollie’s 2ic. If we made it over to them in one piece I needed to know what we were going to be met with. It didn’t sound good. He didn’t sound good. The whole patrol had found a gate inside a deep arch in a wall and, with temperatures at 55 degrees, they’d all gone in to escape the sun for a few minutes.

  And, of course, that’s where the IED had been hidden.

  Someone, he said, had trodden on it. Sam Alexander, Ollie Augustin, JJ Chalmers, an interpreter and another marine were caught in the direct blast. Others, like Kaz, were felled by the shrapnel. Even as we spoke, the 2ic said they were still pulling the injured from the rubble.

  ‘Have you ordered a medevac?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘First thing I did.’

  I just hope you can stay alive long enough to need it.

  As prepared a
s I was when we arrived, breathless, seeing the carnage with my own eyes was something else. While my brain began to slowly digest the scene in front of me, a blur of khaki ran past. It was Jonesy. His medipack was already off by the time he reached the first casualty. The boy was terrific: straight in, no panic, no hesitation. A great addition to the patrol.

  ‘That man needs a tourniquet – get on it!’

  ‘Someone, elevate this leg.’

  While Jonesy took control of the medical side of things, I went straight into overwatch mode. We knew for certain that enemy eyes had been on us. If they’d followed us here we’d be sitting ducks. All men not helping Jonesy I stationed in a sentry ring around the group. We might not able to stop an RPG, but we might stand a chance of shooting its operator before he pulled the trigger.

  It was bloody tense. I was bloody tense. We had trees one way, fields another. Everywhere else was compounds. The threat could come from anywhere, but it was most likely to be from inside one of those buildings. The sweat was pouring down my face, not all of it from the oven-like temperatures. I was aware that just behind me were men in a condition I hoped never to see.

  As everyone settled into their roles I allowed myself a chance to look around at the bomb site. Considering that I knew all these men, I was shocked that I couldn’t recognise half of them. Blood was everywhere. On everything, on everyone. Body parts were scattered over the area. It was sickening.

  I saw Jonesy leave one of the bodies. He’d been too late. The man had no legs. It must have been him who stepped on the bomb. It took me a significant period of staring to realise it was Sam Alexander. I felt sick. Two days earlier we’d been talking about our luck running out. No one truly believed it would. Certainly not Sam. Yet here he was.

  Further round was another mess of missing parts. This was Ollie. He was only twenty-three, already a lieutenant, and destined for greatness. From the way Jonesy was frantically working on him I guessed he was still alive. But it didn’t look promising. Near by, Lance Corporal JJ Chalmers was another one in a bad way. His right arm was in pieces. His left hand had fingers missing. His head looked like it was pointing the wrong way. Everywhere I looked was like a horror film.

  Eventually I noticed the wounded man closest to me. The blood made it hard to distinguish who it was. Bloody hell, it’s Kaz! Just eight hours earlier we’d shared a smoke together. Now one of his eyes was looking the wrong way, his face was totally messed up and his right foot was nowhere to be seen. Still keeping a watch in the distance, I knelt down next to him and took his hand. It was pure instinct.

  ‘Mate,’ I said, ‘…’ But the words just didn’t come. What do you say?

  Kaz groaned. At least he was alive. His good eye stared at me. He knew he was in a shit state.

  ‘Rob,’ he croaked. ‘You’ve got to tell me: have I got everything I need?’

  ‘Everything you …?’

  He was looking towards his feet now.

  Oh, I know what you’re talking about.

  I glanced at his groin. All intact as far as I could see.

  ‘Yeah, you randy bastard, you’ve still got everything you need.’

  He smiled. At that moment the morphine being pumped into him couldn’t have made him feel better.

  ‘What about the others?’ he said.

  ‘You just worry about yourself.’

  I didn’t want to tell him that one of the interpreters had not been so lucky. Even from where I was kneeling I could see the man was missing his genitalia and much else. Weirdly, he appeared to be in less pain than Kaz, thanks to the morphine the lads had already pumped into him.

  ‘How are we doing on that chopper?’ Jonesy called out. Calm but firm.

  I made contact with Captain G-side, Steve’s 2ic at Toki, who contacted Bastion.

  ‘Five minutes,’ I relayed back.

  It was the longest five minutes. To make it worse people started coming out of the compounds. With cameras. There we were, surrounded by our dead and wounded friends, and barely 70 metres away from us there were people taking photos.

  So many things go through your mind at a time like that.

  On a tactical level I’m thinking, Are they recording our responses to see how we operate?

  On a cynical level, I’m thinking, Is this just going up on YouTube for the hits and likes?

  But on a human level I’m thinking, These ambulance chasers disgust me.

  I radioed Sunray a sitrep.

  ‘Permission to fire warning shots.’

  ‘Confirmed.’

  On my command the few of us guarding the area facing the crowd raised our weapons and fired above the heads of the rubberneckers. At the same time John was yelling through the loudhailer for them to go back home. Some went. Most just backed off. At least the filming stopped.

  What really got them moving, though, had nothing to do with me. The sound of two American Pavehawk helicopters – ‘Pedros’, as they’re known – buzzed over us from nowhere. They’d been sent for a reason. British MERT birds – medical emergency rescue teams – aren’t armed. You didn’t have to be a military expert to see that these were bristling with machine guns. After one pass the front chopper hovered over us and rotated, firing as it turned. We were in no danger. It was pivoting on a 50-metre arc. But it bloody cleared those Afghans out of our way.

  Job done, the first bird began to land 20 metres from us. I’d already helped get the injured onto stretchers that were part of the patrols’ kit. ‘As soon as the dust settles, we get them out of here.’

  As knackered and hot as everyone was, the lads tending the victims found the energy to sprint towards the Pedro. The second it landed I wanted those casualties on board and out of here. The longer they were on the ground the more danger they were in from the assembling Taliban threat.

  But it didn’t work out like that.

  The Pedro’s rails barely touched down when a paramedic leapt out. He took one look at the men haring towards him with stretchers and said, ‘They’re not going anywhere.’ Then he gave a shout and the chopper just took off again. It barely bounced on the earth before springing back out of reach.

  I was straight over there. I proper wanted to smash that guy in the face.

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at? Get these men to safety!’

  I was ready to square up. I was ready to do God knows what, if I’m honest. A combination of the heat, the pressure of running the whole site and seeing my mates badly wounded all burst out. The Yank looked stunned. Somehow, I got myself back under control.

  He said simply, ‘That’s not how we do things.’

  The British MERT technique is simple: you throw all casualties on board and deal with them on the fly. American medical practice was: send out a doctor, perform triage as best you can and prioritise the evacuation. They both have their merits but what the US system doesn’t take into account is that the threat from local aggressors was only going to get worse the longer we were there. The ICOM was in meltdown. Tons of voices were talking about us. I had barely half a dozen men guarding the site, with the injured, the dead and those tending them. If just half those chattering on the radio appeared with guns we’d be outnumbered. Outnumbered and exposed trying to protect our comrades.

  This makes no fucking sense.

  The medic flew round the group. Jonesy had done as much as any man could. There was little else the Yank could offer. Except ‘wit’. When he checked Kaz over he said, ‘Is he American?’

  ‘No, he’s Canadian.’

  ‘Ah,’ he smiled. ‘Fucking idiot.’

  Kaz opened his good eye. ‘Fuck you.’

  The American wasn’t finished. He took one look at Kaz’s stump and said, ‘Your dancing days are over, I’m afraid.’ (Which proved to be ironic, because five years later Kaz would win a special Christmas edition of Strictly Come Dancing.)

  Eventually the expert had seen enough. He whistled the birds back down and we got the lads on. As they pulled away Steve McCulley and his team
emerged from the trees.

  ‘Rob,’ he said, ‘you look like shit.’

  ‘I feel like it, sir.’

  ‘You know this is just the beginning, don’t you?’

  ‘All too well.’

  * * *

  It was a relief to hand over the burden of responsibility to Steve. Whatever happened now wouldn’t just be on my own shoulders.

  At least, that was the idea.

  Mentally I was on my last legs. So many decisions, all those men counting on me. But, as Steve said, it was far from over. We’d only packed off the injured. I still had to maintain the integrity of the explosion site until the investigation team arrived. And, of course, they’d need protecting as well.

  By now we’d been on our feet for seven hours. In the blazing sun. We were drained and, I realised, dangerously close to dehydration. When you’re so determined to help others you forget to look after yourself. Luckily, the investigation boys brought a shitload of water with them. One by one I called the lads in to get their fill, then it was back to the day’s work.

  Robbie, as usual, was the first to lose any downtime – the curse of being the best at his job.

  ‘We need to sweep the compound where the IED went off,’ I said. ‘Can you get us a path?’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  Amazing kid.

  Suddenly there were four operations going on. The big tidy-up process was the one I liked least. There were body parts scattered around, among the helmets and blood-stained armour. That all needed to be bagged and tagged. The investigators worked the bomb crater for clues as to how it had been caused. Half the available men from both patrols began the search of the compound, while the rest stayed alert on sentry duty. I flitted back and forth, trying to be wherever I was needed. Morale was low, unsurprisingly. The first time I emerged from the compound one of Afghan soldiers attached to Damo’s group said to me, ‘What should I do with this?’

  He was holding a bag containing part of a leg.

  ‘Mate, I dunno. I suppose I’ll take it.’

  Before long I had a collection of body parts next to my station. I could identify the owners of some without thinking. Others you couldn’t even make out which part of the body they belonged to.