‘Pretty grim, mate. You must have heard Dan’s died.’
‘Yeah, but that’s all we know.’
‘Me and the OPSWO have just done the post-blast where he was killed. I can’t speak for long but I don’t think Dan made a mistake. It seems to have just been bad luck.’
I was probably breaking all the rules but Lee was teaching the next set of ATOs who were due to be heading out as the next relief in place – they needed to know what had happened. Quite rightly they would be asking searching questions, with the main one being whether they are being trained correctly.
‘Listen, mate, I’m going to have to go, things to do . . .’ and I ended the conversation abruptly, not really knowing what to say. Within a few minutes the Mastiffs were on the move back to the FOB. It was difficult to leave the place where Dan had died. It almost felt like a betrayal. I wanted to stay and guard the area because we knew the Taliban would be back to examine their handy work and congratulate each other on a job well done.
By midnight that evening we had been choppered back to FOB Price. I climbed into bed in a daze, not knowing what to think, about Dan, the shit day, tomorrow, the day after. I closed my eyes and waited – one thing that was certain, death would visit my dreams.
Dan was the 187th British soldier to die in Afghanistan. Before the British Army left a further 267 would be killed in action.
12
Blown Up
The last thing I remembered was listening to John Legend through my iPod headphones. The 26th of July had been a long and unusually hot day. The heat had sapped my strength and I was about as knackered as I could remember. The armoured vehicle was crammed full of dirty, sweat-soaked soldiers, but I cared not. I closed my ears and relaxed. Thoughts of cold beers and peaceful days – I was in my time.
The team had been based at Keenan for a few days, dealing with IEDs as and when they were found by the troops running the patrol base. It was bread and butter work, just what was needed to keep everyone ticking over after a period of intense activity.
Mornings were spent sorting out equipment and making sure reports were up to date – a process loosely referred to in the Army as ‘admin’. Lunch beckoned, an event that should never be missed by anyone either based in or passing through Keenan. The food was always fresh and cooked by chefs who took a real delight in watching others enjoying the effort of their labours. I was sitting down to a lunch of cold chicken and salad when a young private soldier appeared and apologetically explained that I was required to attend a briefing immediately. The rest of the team, now well versed in reading the signs of a fast-ball mission, finished their meals and headed straight for our accommodation to await my orders.
A Danish infantry unit call sign Echo One One Alpha based at Patrol Base Barakzae had found a suspected command-pull device in an area known as the Witch’s Hat. The bomb was located 800 metres from the PB in a critical location on the track. It was disrupting patrolling activity and so they needed it cleared ASAP.
The Witch’s Hat had a reputation as a Taliban bomb magnet. Dozens of IEDs had been found in the area and several soldiers had been killed and injured. It had been given the name by soldiers because all the tracks in the area converged into one main route, in the shape of a witch’s hat and right at the peak sat PB Barakzae. But soldiers manning the bases did not have a clear line of sight down the main track, which meant the Taliban could plant IEDs on the routes into and out of the PB with relative ease. Although the mission appeared to be simple enough, areas like the Witch’s Hat had to be treated with extreme caution. The Taliban, like most guerrilla groups, would usually only plant IEDs in areas where they got results, and the Witch’s Hat was definitely one of those.
Back at our tented home I briefed the team on the plan. Everyone was familiar with the area’s notoriety and they all shared my concerns. It had been a week since Dan had died and everyone was still a bit raw. The incident hadn’t been discussed since we left Shawqat and no one mentioned his name. In an ideal world we should have chatted about Dan, how his loss affected us and talked about our own fears. But we didn’t and instead his death hung over us like a dark shadow for the rest of the tour.
The Chinook dropped us off on a dusty HLS a kilometre south of PB Barakzae that could have been anywhere in Helmand. As I was orientating myself to the terrain, a small convoy of four Danish armoured vehicles appeared from over a slight rise in the undulating desert landscape.
The convoy’s commander explained that his soldiers had already secured the area after they found a long length of kite string attached to an IED. He explained that the IED was located on a Vulnerable Point, a narrowing of tracks that channelled anything moving by vehicle towards the device. The ever-vigilant Danes had searched along the length of the kite string until they found what they believed to be the battery pack and firing switch, at which point they cut the string, believing the device was safe and waited for the Counter-IED team to arrive.
‘Impressive,’ I said congratulating the commander on his soldiers’ efforts, but also warning them of the potential dangers of walking the length of a command wire or string and snipping it. The string could have been booby-trapped, pressure plates could have been placed along its length and they could have found themselves walking into a come-on. Better wait for us next time, I suggested. The Danes took my advice with good grace and my team set about clearing the IED and by just before 7.00 p.m., as the evening light was beginning to fade, the job was finished
Kit was eagerly packed away and the team split itself between two armoured vehicles for the quick trip back to the HLS and onwards to Keenan in the hope that we might still be able to get an evening meal. Given my seniority, I bagged the best seat, the last on the right looking into the vehicle. Space was always at a premium and any spare room was filled with kit, ammunition boxes, radios, batteries or water. Everyone was supposed to be strapped into their seats by belts which crossed your chest but these had been largely ignored because they were either broken or too difficult to adjust. Likewise most of us had removed our helmets the moment the rear doors slammed shut. Despite the squeeze, the noise, and the overbearing heat inside the vehicle, I lay back and closed my eyes and quickly slipped into a well-earned power nap.
The vehicles sped eastwards following an unmarked route that hand-railed the main track back to the HLS and on to the patrol base. The convoy was just two minutes from the HLS when my vehicle struck an IED. The bomb, thought to have been around 20kg of home-made explosive, detonated almost directly beneath where I was sitting. The force of the blast threw the 18-ton vehicle several feet into the air. Everyone inside was thrown out of their seats, smashing into each other while boxes of ammunition, radios and equipment fell down on top of us. At some point I must have smashed my head against the reinforced armoured sides or been clipped by an ammo box because I went from being asleep to unconscious.
‘Kim, wake up, wake up . . .’ Chidders was shaking me, his face a few inches away from mine and there was real fear in his eyes. My vision was blurred and Chidders’s voice was muffled, like he was shouting with a gag in his mouth. LCpl Matt ‘Chidders’ Chiddley was the search team’s second-in-command. He was one of the most reliable soldiers in the team – fit, bright and utterly professional. The vehicle’s interior lighting had failed and soldiers fumbled around in almost complete darkness, coughing and spluttering as dust filled the cabin.
‘Kim, are you OK?’ Chidders shouted again as though he was speaking to someone who couldn’t understand.
‘ARE. YOU. OK?’
‘Yes, yes. For fuck’s sake. I’m fine,’ I said, spitting dust and blood from my mouth.
My ears were ringing like an alarm bell had gone off inside my head. I felt drowsy, almost as if I were drunk or had just woken from a long sleep.
One of the top hatches was opened from the outside and I could see for the first time the carnage inside the vehicle. There was kit and equipment everywhere. Ammunition boxes had spilled open, radios and cables were hanging
from the sides and food was strewn across the floor.
‘What’s going on?’ I said, utterly confused.
‘IED strike. The vehicle’s knackered and I think you were knocked out. You were thrown all over the place. Do you feel OK?’
Before I could answer a sharp, almost blinding pain, like the world’s worst hangover, began to career through my head. Just as I was starting to get a grip on what had happened I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my right leg, which had been wedged beneath my seat by a dislodged ammunition box. Reaching down I could feel that my leg was wet and initially I thought I had been injured in the blast. I brought my hand to my face expecting to see blood and gore but it was just water from a broken water bottle. I sighed in relief. ‘Thank fuck for that.’
Chidders grabbed me again. ‘Are you hurt? You were out for a bit.’
‘I’m all right. Stop looking at me like that. Jesus. I’m OK.’
I pulled myself out of my seat, yanking my headphones out of my ears in the process but as I tried to stand my legs buckled. I stumbled and a hand reached down through the top hatch and grabbed my arm, helping me climb unsteadily up onto the top deck.
I spat again, wiped dust from my eyes and rubbed the back of my neck, which had started to ache. The Danish vehicle was a write-off. One of the tracks had been completely ripped off and the wire storage cages blown to pieces. Mangled pieces of kit and equipment were lying all over the place. I turned around and could see the blast crater still smoking about twenty feet from where the vehicle had come to rest. Twenty kilos of home-made explosive packs a very powerful punch and on another day could have easily taken out the entire vehicle and all of us inside.
The search team were already on the ground moving quickly and efficiently, clearing two routes, one on the left and one on the right of the damaged vehicle. Everyone knew exactly what to do and they worked as single unit.
‘Everyone OK over there?’ Chappy shouted.
‘Yeah, all fine, mate. ATO’s got a bit of a sore head but that’s it,’ Chidders said, now more relaxed and almost laughing.
I still wasn’t quite sure if I had been knocked unconscious but that did not stop everyone treating me as if I was a serious casualty. I kept telling everyone to chill and attempted to coordinate the search, making sure all areas were being cleared.
After a few minutes, I tried to stand again to get a better look at what was going on but almost immediately my legs gave way again.
‘Kim, just stay put, the medic’s coming,’ said Chidders.
My body felt as if it was no longer obeying orders. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. My head was really thumping as though there was a massive build-up of pressure ready to burst and I was just about to lie down when a Danish medic leapt up from the ground.
‘Hi, my name is Anders. I’m a medic. How are you doing?’ he enquired.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just had a bit of a head rush. Make sure everyone else is OK.’
Anders then turned to Chidders and asked what had happened. ‘There was the explosion and while I was checking if everyone was OK Kim still had his eyes closed. He got thrown around the vehicle, banged his head and hurt his leg.’
The medic returned his focus to me, studying my pupils with a small torch before checking my neck and back. When he finished I tried to stand for a second time only for my legs to give way again. Anders grabbed my arm and looked very unimpressed. ‘Right, stay there. We’re getting you off the ground.’
‘I know,’ I responded, ‘we’re all heading back to Bastion after this job.’
‘I mean we’re getting you off the ground now. I’m calling a chopper in. You’re going to be casevaced.’
‘You’re joking. I’m fine, I’m just a little light-headed.’
Anders ignored my protests and told the small group of soldiers, who had now gathered around the damaged vehicle, that I needed to be carried off. I was passed from one soldier to the next until I was on the ground. Still feeling unsteady and light-headed, I sat down resting my back against the side of the damaged vehicle. My stomach began to turn and I was convinced I was about to puke when a spine-board was dropped by the side of me.
‘I’m not getting on that,’ I said to Anders, making it sound as much like an order as possible.
‘Look, you might outrank me but you’re a casualty and while you are in our patch you will do as you are told. Understand?’
At least he’s got the balls to stand up to me, I thought. ‘All right, whatever.’
‘You’re not a critical casualty but you’ve hurt your head, you were unconscious and you’ve collapsed twice. I don’t know what has happened to you. I can only do so much. You could have a concussion or a more serious brain injury. We need to get you back to Bastion so the experts can have a look. It will be a lot easier if you let me do my job.’
The spine-board felt like some form of medieval torture and my misery was complete when Anders insisted that I wore a neck brace. It wasn’t long before the piss-taking started and the cameras came out.
Anders began sending through a nine-liner, a specific message format that provides vital information to the surgical team back in Bastion as well as to the airborne medical units.
He returned his attention to me. ‘You are a Cat B casualty, help is on its way and you’ll be back in Bastion very soon.’
‘I’m not leaving my team on the ground,’ I said indignantly and saw the medic’s eyes roll to the back of his head.
Even my guys were getting pissed off with me now. ‘Kim, just do what he says. We’ll be following you into Bastion a little later,’ Chappy said, clearly fed up with my antics. Next Anders placed a drip in my arm, checked my pulse and listened to my breathing before ensuring I was firmly strapped to the board.
‘Make sure all my kit comes off the ground, especially my man bag. It’s got my weapons and explosives in it,’ I said to Chappy, still trying to act as if I was still in command.
As darkness closed in around us, two US Black Hawk helicopters arrived. One hovered menacingly above providing over-watch, scanning the ground surrounding the convoy below, while the other dropped quickly onto an HLS marked with green smoke. Almost immediately four members of my team grabbed the spine-board and quickly carried me through the dust cloud and slid me into the waiting arms of two US medics.
‘I’ll be back in a few hours!’ I shouted feeling like a bluffer with a fake injury.
The medics were part of team PEDRO, the special forces-trained combat search and rescue team. The two medics began frantically checking every part of my body for unseen injuries. One of them rolled up my sleeve and began stabbing my left arm with a needle in search of a vein.
‘Sorry, dude,’ the US medic responded with a southern drawl, ‘I’m trying to get an IV line into you.’
‘What like this one?’ I lifted my right arm to show him that a drip was already pumping saline into my body.
Despite my protests and my insistence that I was fine the PEDRO boys took no notice. They had dealt with dozens of soldiers with far worse injuries, looking after casualties who’d lost legs and arms or had been shot while claiming that they were fine. Twenty minutes later the chopper was landing on the HLS at Bastion. I lifted my head and saw the blue flashing lights of the base fire engine standing by for any untold emergency. I felt like a complete fraud and only hoped that I wasn’t holding back a chopper from some poor sod who really needed it.
Even though the HLS was about forty metres from the Bastion hospital, I was lifted into the back of a waiting ambulance for the twenty-second journey. The hospital door swung open and suddenly the air felt clean and medicinal. Occasionally a face would appear in front of me, telling me that I was fine and everything was going to be OK.
Next Major Millar, the OC of the EOD Task Force and the Operations Warrant Officer appeared.
‘Kim, how are you?’ the OC asked, concern spread across his face.
‘I’m all right, sir. Honestly I’m fine.
’
But I must have looked pretty bad because I was filthy, covered in dust and had various tubes going into my arms and winced with pain every few seconds.
As I was wheeled away I shouted back to the OC. ‘Boss, have you got my pistol and rifle? There are explosives in my man bag.’
‘Don’t worry, Kim,’ the OC shouted, ‘it will all be sorted.’
The stretcher trolley smashed through another pair of swing doors and a team of medics descended on me, cutting my clothes off, in an instant ruining my brand-new combats, which I had just been issued with after weeks of waiting.
The doctor, a specialist in battlefield trauma, who was used to dealing with bullet wounds and multiple amputations, turned to me: ‘You were in an explosion?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what hurts?’
‘Just my head, mate, my leg and my ears are ringing.’
‘OK, but what else?’ the doctor asked as if they expected me to say: ‘Oh, I forgot to say I was missing a leg.’
‘No, that’s it. I’ve told everyone I didn’t need to come here.’ The doctor looked almost disappointed, as if I had somehow let him down by not being more seriously injured.
‘Right, CT scan. Let’s go. He has a head injury, he might have internal bleeding!’ the doctor shouted after a few moments’ thought.
After the scan another two doctors began poking and prodding me. One pressed my knee and I winced.
‘Does that hurt?’
‘Yeah,’ I responded.
‘Right, X-ray,’ the doctor said and another medic immediately appeared with a portable X-ray machine.
Every time I said anything hurt it was X-rayed. It was a case of ‘No, that’s not broken, what else hurts? Your pelvis? Right, X-ray’ and these were real-time images that immediately appeared on a screen.
Within twenty minutes of arriving at the hospital I was put through a CT scan and most of my body was X-rayed. It was extraordinary. I had never realised up to that point just how good the medical care was in Bastion.
Painting the Sand Page 15