‘He’s clean,’ one of the young soldiers said and Ali, the Terp, and the infantry commander moved forward and began speaking to him, asking what he wanted. Everyone was wary. Soldiers had recently been killed by suicide bombs in almost identical circumstances.
After a few minutes chatting the infantry sergeant turned to me and said, ‘We’ve got an IED find.’
Ali was still talking to the man, being quite stern and kept asking him where the device was and how he knew it was there.
‘I think he’s telling the truth,’ he said to the sergeant, ‘but he’s either stupid or hiding something. I’m not sure he’s a local. He could be a foreign fighter or from another area but he looks like a Pashtun. He could be Taliban. You should be careful.’
The sergeant turned to me: ‘You up for this? It’s been a long day.’
‘Yeah. Let’s get it done. Better now than having to come back out. Whereabouts is it?’
The Afghan indicated that the device was along a track about sixty metres away from our position. The infantry sergeant radioed back to Keenan and got the necessary clearance for us to disarm the device. We were led along the track that ran parallel to a field up to a small irrigation ditch, where there was a massive marijuana field, at least ten acres in size and full of five-foot-high plants. The field was immaculate, a deep rich green against the surrounding sandy-brown desert and was almost certainly owned by the Taliban. The IED, according to the Afghan, was just a few steps into the field, positioned at an obvious crossing point.
The infantry went into all-round defence, pushing deeper into the crops and securing areas that the Taliban might attempt to use as firing points. I had a quick look at where the Afghan said the IED was and could immediately see some ground-sign, suggesting that a device was buried there.
Within minutes of arriving, the local population disappeared and something inside me was saying that this picture wasn’t right. It was partly to do with the reaction of the Terp, who was openly suspicious of the local, and the location of a compound about a hundred metres away, where large holes had been cut in the wall.
‘Murder holes?’ I said to Dave, pointing at the compound wall.
‘Possibly,’ he responded.
I went through the normal process of getting Dave into position before searching my way down to the target and got a metal hit on the metal detector as soon as I stepped over the irrigation ditch. I popped some smoke to screen off my position from the compound and got to work, sweeping the sand away, expecting to find a corner of a pressure plate. But instead I uncovered the edge of a cylindrical metal container, about an inch and a half in diameter. As I continued flicking away the empty casing of a hand-held parachute flare with a red wire tied to the end of the case began to emerge.
It had all the hallmarks of a possible anti-lift device. Pull the case out of the ground and the wire causes a victim-operated switch to fire, so best left alone. I popped another couple of smoke grenades and then decided to try and ‘attack’ the device from a different angle.
Everything was going according to plan until one of the soldiers in the cordon shouted to me that the Terp was picking up ICOM chatter from the Taliban. The ICOM is a handheld VHF radio used by the Taliban as their main means of communication and luckily for us we could also listen in to their conversations.
‘The Terp says the Taliban can see you!’ he shouted from about twenty metres away.
‘What do you mean “they can see me”?’ But the soldier shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘Don’t ask me.’
Back at the ICP, the Terp explained that the Taliban were watching everything I did or at least trying to. The smoke was working to some degree but the Taliban appeared to be watching from several different locations.
‘If they’re over there,’ I said pointing at the compound, ‘they’ll be able to see my legs and possibly my upper half.’
I threw another smoke grenade to screen off the entire compound and within about thirty seconds the ICOM receiver crackled into life. The Terp, providing a real-time translation of what the Taliban were saying, said, ‘He’s now saying: “Yeah, yeah. He’s back, he’s back. But his legs have disappeared.” ’
Dave and I threw another four or five smoke grenades into the field, creating an impenetrable blue wall. I headed back to the device and although knowing the Taliban were in the area was slightly unnerving I was pretty sure they weren’t going to open fire unless they had an identifiable target.
Digging away again I uncovered an empty yellow three-litre palm oil container with a piece of red wire running from the oil container’s handle to the base of the empty flare. I’d never come across anything like this before and assumed that possibly, just possibly, another bomb was buried underneath but a quick sweep with the metal detector indicated that the ground was clear.
While all this was going on there was constant ICOM chatter with the Terp reporting that the Taliban were constantly moving their position to get eyes on me. It was almost like a game of chess. Every time the Taliban said they were going to move to the left or the right I would tell the infantry to push left or right and deploy smoke. The ‘bomb’ was extracted from the ground using a hook and line. As I assumed, there was nothing underneath, it wasn’t booby-trapped and it wasn’t an IED. Then it dawned on me that the Taliban had been monitoring us from the moment we had been approached by the Afghan. It was part of an elaborate plan to see how my team operated, what pattern we worked to, what tactics we used. They were looking for weaknesses. They had drawn us into an area where they could observe us but fortunately our lavish use of smoke had poured piss on their plans.
In a moment of clarity it all came together: the Afghan turning up out of the blue, the Terp being extremely cautious, and the Taliban constantly monitoring my movements. Just before we pulled out, the owner of the field turned up and began complaining about how our smoke had damaged so much of his field. Given that he was growing drugs for the Taliban and that he must have known about the hoax device, I told the Terp to tell him to go fuck himself.
After we returned to Keenan, I gave Sandy a full breakdown of what had happened and how the Counter-IED teams needed to be aware they were now being specifically targeted by the Taliban.
A few days later my team was pulled out of the base but before leaving I gave a comprehensive brief to Captain Dan Reid, who was coming into the area. Nothing was left uncovered – from how the local bomb team were using trees as markers to how on my last job I had decided to approach the device walking through an irrigation ditch full of shit. Being a good Counter-IED team wasn’t just about finding and defusing bombs – it was also about conducting a detailed threat assessment and liaising with all the other troops in the area to ensure that you weren’t setting yourself up for a fall. Honesty and integrity were key. Your survival was reliant not just on your skills but on what others told you. In some cases attempting to clear a device can become a complete head-fuck because every avenue has been closed down completely. You can’t do Plan A because another operator has done it, Plan B has been ruined by the infantry doing something similar in the area, and Plan C is out for some other reason and so you’re left with plan ‘suck it up and get on with it’, which amounts to the best of all the worst case options. I was never quite sure whether the Taliban wanted to kill me personally or just any Counter-IED Operator. We were certainly priority targets. But if they were after me then I take that as a personal compliment. The game of cat and mouse was ever-evolving and only time would tell who would come out on top.
22
Last Job?
The day had finally arrived – 18 September 2009. After six gruelling months Brimstone 42 had finally completed its last mission – a few random, not very memorable IEDs in FOB Keenan’s area of operations. Bread and butter stuff – basic high-metal-content pressure plates that had probably been in the ground for a few months. By mid afternoon the team was back behind Keenan’s high secure walls and as the rest of the lads began conduct
ing their post-op admin, I headed over to the Ops Room to get an update on our planned move back to Bastion.
Operation Herrick 9 was drawing to a close and the RIP had already begun. A few lucky members of the EOD Task Force were already at home shagging their wives and girlfriends or on a beach in Cyprus, undergoing their twenty-four-hour period of decompression, where they could get shitfaced, finger-poke the chain of command about anything that had pissed them off over the last six months, and have a fight in a confined area without upsetting the locals.
The satphone in Bastion Ops Room rang twice before it was answered.
‘Hi, it’s Staff Hughes. Is the SAT about?’
Sandy answered: ‘Kim. Good day?’
‘Yeah – straightforward enough. Five pressure plates, no dramas. You’ll have my report in an hour or so. Just checking in.’
‘No rush, mate. You’re offline. That’s you and your team complete. There will be a chopper coming in for you tomorrow. Finish the report when you get back here and tell your team you should be back home by the end of the week.’
‘Mega’ – exactly what I wanted to hear.
For the first time in six months I felt a sense of relief surge through my body. Apart from losing Sam early on through a freak accident (the news on his condition was limited but he appeared to be making good progress), the team had survived Afghan unscathed. In 2009, that simple fact alone was almost remarkable, given the number of casualties being taken in the EOD Task Force.
As well as surviving Brimstone 42 had done a brilliant job and developed a reputation for being one of the best IEDD teams in theatre. But at that moment I couldn’t care about that. My team were alive and were going back home to grateful wives, girlfriends and families. No more tears, no knocks on the door in the early hours, no funerals, no more hospital visits for us. Right at that moment I couldn’t have given a fuck about Afghan, it’s future, the Taliban or Al-Qaeda. I just wanted to get home and see my son.
The search element of my IEDD team had been pulled out a few weeks earlier. The increased workload of the summer fighting season meant that their R & R had slipped repeatedly. By the time they were due to get their break they were basically told by the OC of the EOD Task Force not to return and for the past few days I’d been breaking in a new search team. Like us, they too wanted to get back to Bastion so they could team up with a fresh ATO – they’d heard enough of our war stories and were now ready to fight their own war.
‘Brilliant news,’ I said to Sandy before hanging up. I suddenly felt unburdened of worry as I bounded over to our accommodation to break the news to the team. No longer would I lie awake at night wondering if a member of my team was going to be killed or wounded and I found myself smiling, properly smiling for the first time in months.
I pushed open the large, flapping white door of the tent. The team looked at me and I paused for a few seconds. No one spoke.
‘We are done,’ I said.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ Lewis said smiling. ‘That’s the best news ever – nothing is going to be better than that.’
Dave simply fell back onto his bed saying, ‘Yes – going home.’ There was no real American-style whooping or cheering. Just relief – total and utter relief.
‘Right, let’s get our kit sorted together. There’s a chopper coming in at 0800 hrs tomorrow and we need to be on the HLS at 0745 hrs.’
That afternoon I made a quick tour of the camp saying my goodbyes to the soldiers we had grown close to over the last six months. I wished them luck and told them to stay safe. I shook hands and promised to meet up with just about everyone when they got back to the UK.
Later that evening in our tent, as we packed away our kit, Lewis, Dave and I joked and laughed as we retold the stories of the tour. The mistakes and the near misses. We concentrated on the light-hearted stuff. No one really wanted to talk about those who were killed or injured. The new search team looked on and chuckled. They were a good bunch of lads but they hadn’t had our war, they hadn’t shared our fears and the distance between us was unbridgeable. I slept like a baby that night and for the first time in ages I woke refreshed and invigorated. The constant tiredness that had dogged the entire team for the last few weeks felt as though it had disappeared.
At the HLS, the team said goodbye to Major Plant, as he shook each one of us by the hand. He was a good officer and had treated us as if we were part of his squadron.
‘Thanks for looking after us, sir. Couldn’t have asked for more,’ I said.
‘You were stars. Your boys saved a lot of lives. My lads included. I’m sure our paths will cross again.’
The distinctive thump, thump, thump of a Chinook’s twin rotor blades signalled that our lift back to Bastion was inbound.
Within a few seconds the Chinook had landed and I took one last look at the camp before the RAF tail-gunner, one hand permanently fixed on his chain-gun, beckoned us forward. Each man weighed down by a heavy pack, some almost bent double, clambered on board, found a seat, turned their rifles barrel towards the floor and strapped themselves in.
As was my ritual, I was the last on board. A quick head count and I gave the thumbs-up to the loadmaster. The Chinook was barely on the ground for two minutes before we were airborne, flying due south towards Bastion. Engine noise combined with a vicious crosswind made any form of conversation impossible. I sank into my seat, plugged in my iPod and breathed deeply. The tour was over. I felt like my world had suddenly expanded and there was now something to look forward to beyond the next IED and restless nights of death visiting my dreams.
The Chinook had been airborne for around fifteen minutes when the loadmaster was called forward by the co-pilot for what was clearly some sort of briefing. The loadmaster kept glancing and pointing into the cabin and then began writing down a message on a plastic arm panel on the inside of his forearm.
My gut told me something wasn’t right and my concern grew as he began to head down the centre of the Chinook, stumbling over packs and equipment. He reached Dave and shouted something in his ear. Dave, looking serious, pointed at me. Whatever was happening wasn’t good. It was like being punched in slow motion. I could see it coming but there was nothing I could do about it. I waited for the body blow.
The loadie reached me and mouthed the word ‘ATO’ and as I nodded he pointed to the plastic panel on his right forearm upon which was written: ‘IED FIND. DIVERTING TO NEW GRID’. I lifted my hands in protest and said, ‘What are you on about?’
But he shrugged as if to say ‘Not my problem’ and of course it wasn’t. He patted me on the shoulder, smiled and headed back to the cockpit.
Never had I felt more gutted. Did the camp rats back in the Ops Room have any idea what they’d done? We’d been messed around before, too many times; it was part of life on ops. But this was different. They were fucking with our lives.
I angrily scribbled down the same message in my notebook and passed it along to the soldier next to me. One by one the smiles fell from their faces. I didn’t blame them for looking miserable. Someone had just pissed all over our chips and we weren’t happy.
Just as I was wallowing in my own self-pity, I was hit by the realisation that I had completely stripped out my equipment. The previous evening had been largely spent breaking down my kit so that it could be handed in to the various stores in Bastion. Normally my Bergen would be packed with my ops kit on top – and my rations, sleeping bag and other bits and pieces at the bottom. My day-sack would contain explosives, ammo and my man bag.
Just at that moment the loadmaster reappeared with another message: ‘45 MINS LANDING IN BABAJI’. Babaji was a shithole, even for Helmand. The area was riddled with IEDs and outside of the FOB and PBs, the ground was effectively controlled by the Taliban.
‘Great,’ I thought, ‘tell us that we’re being pulled out so that our heads are full of beer and shagging and then send us into Terry country.’
I grabbed my day-sack, dragged it towards me and pulled out my man bag
swearing loudly at the messed-up situation. I began filling it with explosives, making sure I had my EOD weapon packed along with all the other bits and pieces I would need. Dave and Lewis were doing the same. While my team were completely gutted, the search team, by contrast, were hugely excited. For them it was wartime – they were going to find a bomb.
As we approached the target, the tail-gunner gave us the countdown – five minutes out, then four, then three. One minute to land and my heart was thumping. I clocked the LZ through the Chinook’s tailgate and it was basically in the middle of the desert.
The chopper landed heavily, rear wheels hitting the ground first. A thick cloud of dust was forced inside the cabin from the downdraught. My mouth filled with dirt, a nauseating mixture of dust and dried shit. I spat while pulling my goggles down and held my breath.
The tail-gunner gave me the thumbs-up and I staggered off the back of the chopper stumbling under the weight of my Bergen before dropping down to one knee. I brought my rifle up to the aim and signalled to the team to move into all-round defence until we could work out what was going on. Seconds later the Chinook was airborne and banking steeply to the right. Our ticket home was gone.
As the dust settled I stood up and scanned the barren, featureless desert. The sun was beating down on my back like a hammer and the feeling of disorientation was almost overwhelming. No patrol bases, no soldiers, no vehicles, just empty desert. I wasn’t even sure whether we had landed in the right location until someone spotted a small, armoured convoy heading our way. The convoy halted in a cloud of dust. Soldiers providing top cover menacingly trained their heavy machine guns out towards the edge of the Green Zone in the far distance. The door of the lead vehicle opened and a US sergeant jumped down and introduced himself as George, a member of the US Army Police Mentoring Team, a bit like our RMPs.
Painting the Sand Page 22