I explained this to the Apache pilot, who was getting understandably frustrated by us going through this process of de-escalation. Remaining loyal to my company commander, I ignored his comments and told him to hold off while we conducted this show of force. I could tell he thought I was doing the wrong thing.
‘Boss, am I clear? Thirty seconds out,’ Baz called over to me.
I checkfired the guns, and cleared Baz to bring in the jet.
‘Fifteen seconds!’ I shouted to the company commander.
It was hideously embarrassing, but not altogether unexpected, when the B-1 flew over the target at 500ft as opposed to 50ft. It felt like we were at a bloody air show and I could hear the Apache pilot laughing into his radio.
I immediately ordered the Apache to come into the overhead and talked it onto the target compound, from where we were still taking fire. The fire stopped as soon as the Apache came on the scene, and being unable to see any enemy meant I couldn’t engage. It had the desired effect though, and we conducted an orderly withdrawal back to the PB, having achieved, in my view, absolutely nothing.
16
The smaller patrols were where the action really happened. As a company group we were never really going to get taken on by the Taliban and be given the opportunity to kill them. We were also unlikely to get any really useful information from the locals because it was so obvious we were there, and none of them would talk to us for fear of retribution from the Taliban.
We worked out pretty quickly that the best way to understand what was really going on was to send out small patrols, leaving every day before dawn so we could be in place in a dangerous area as the sun came up and could watch pattern of life. These patrols nearly always came under contact from the enemy, who were never particularly pleased to discover us in their backyard.
A few days after the company operation that achieved precisely nothing, my team were tasked to support a patrol that was due to push into a particularly contested area that locals had told us they were prohibited from visiting. Bing, Baz and I were tacked on to this patrol, which consisted of seven Brits and four ANA personnel. They also had a terrific interpreter called Frank, who was in his thirties, educated and hated the Taliban. The feeling was mutual. They goaded him on their radios because they knew we were intercepting their traffic, and Frank was interpreting it for us.
Patrols into enemy occupied areas generally always went the same way. An uneventful push into the target area in darkness followed by a watch of the morning routine of the enemy – including their sentry routines – before leaving around 8 a.m. On the way back to the base we’d spot the key combat indicators, which always give you a good idea about how long you have before you are engaged by the enemy. These would start with some frantic driving around on motorbikes by young, fighting-age males, usually followed by women gathering the children into the nearby compounds. Then the chatter on ICOM – the Taliban’s handheld radio system – would start to liven up, and we’d know what was coming. ICOM handsets are press to talk, walkie-talkie type devices which we easily intercepted using a similar device tuned in to their radio frequency. As your time went on in Afghanistan you could understand key words and phrases the Taliban used.
Knowing what was coming, we would try to avoid obvious ambush spots on the way back to the PB, but avoiding all of them was not possible. The patrol order we adopted was usually the same: Afghans on point (you don’t want them behind you), the British section in the middle and then my FST in the rear. The trouble with this set-up, though, was that whenever we were returning to our patrol base we inevitably got hit from the rear, and so the fire support team ended up being first in contact – not how we had intended it to work.
On this particular morning, as soon as it was time to head back to the PB and we deliberately revealed our presence, the ICOM radios bubbled into life. We had barely left the target area when we were engaged, but this time were still some considerable distance from the safety of the PB. The fire was particularly heavy as well – they were clearly using a mounted machine gun, firing in accurate and regular bursts, and there seemed to be multiple firing points, although all in the same general area.
‘Contact rear!’ I shouted as we turned around and engaged in the general direction of the enemy fire.
The section engaged the enemy, and between us we formed a fairly solid baseline before conducting ‘fire and manoeuvre’ towards the enemy and into an irrigation ditch, which was the nearest decent bit of cover.
A Minimi machine gunner was next to me – I think the section commander had sent him over so that he could protect me while I worked out what to do. I called a contact report into my radio to the gun line, then had a conversation with the section commander.
‘What do you reckon, boss?’ he said.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘That was pretty heavy, but I don’t know how many of them there are.’
As I said this, a Taliban fighter stood up in the long grass about twenty metres away. The Minimi gunner fired a burst into him. He fell immediately. I could see movement about 120 yards to my front in another irrigation ditch. I also saw movement to our south, and ICOM chatter suggested they were going to try and encircle us. This was not in itself unusual but it was disturbing on this occasion, given how far we were from the PB.
Baz was talking into his radio and seemed to be getting frustrated. I asked what was up.
‘Nothing available at this time. I’ve put in an ECAS request,’ he replied. (ECAS – Emergency Close Air Support.)
I had been talking to the gun line throughout our patrol, updating them as to our progress, and I knew that they were good to go. I could not take the risk of just getting up and moving the section – the Taliban were clearly all over us, and probably a bit fucked off with one dead already. I was going to use the guns, and I wasn’t going to mess around with any smoke or similar – I needed to neutralize this enemy position, and re-seize the initiative so we could disengage and get back to the PB.
The trouble was that HE had not been used in Helmand for months by this stage, and certainly not on this tour. We believed there might have been a ban on it, although this was never confirmed. General McChrystal’s ‘courageous restraint’ policy was dominating every conversation, and the first casualty of that ‘progress’ was inevitably unguided high explosive munitions, like our 105mm guns. But, used properly, I was convinced there was no better weapon in this environment.
Artillery is by no means perfect. It can go wrong, and clearly precision weapons conducting precision strikes are far more effective. But in the fields of Helmand, much like the fields in Normandy or Vietnam, some things never change. If you are constantly being ambushed by the enemy – being engaged in a time and place of their choosing, inevitably pinning you down – getting a joint fires effect on the ground can be the critical factor in reducing the chances of casualties in your patrol. This was not Special Forces – there wasn’t an abundance of precision assets at our disposal; we had to wait. And there was no point waiting ten or fifteen minutes in the hope that a precision weapon might become available in time, with the enemy persistently taking pot-shots at your men in poor cover. Clearly if you are in a compound or a PB, this is not an issue; but being pinned down in a ditch is not the same. You need to act to reassert your authority and reclaim the initiative from an enemy who have chosen both the ground and a time to engage you that gives them the most advantage.
So artillery is known as the ‘god of war’ for good reason; it is bloody quick, it’s bloody frightening and it works. Even if you cannot land the round directly on the target for fear of hitting civilians, the splinter distance and the sheer effect of 105mm HE going off near you – perhaps just outside your compound, or the shrapnel piercing the trees around your head – means you are far more likely to keep your head down and stop shooting at me than if I just sit there and wait for a better asset to turn up.
Using it is a skill. You cannot be stupid and level buildings to flush out
a single fighter, or indeed try and hit a precise target by endlessly engaging an area – that is dumb use of dumb munitions. But it is fast to use, it can change the momentum of a battle even if it doesn’t precisely kill the enemy and it gives you time and space to either get out of there or get somewhere more secure. It gives you a break to improve your situation, and sometimes that is all you need when you have been ambushed and caught out in the open. It remains the god of war.
It is indeed a skill. The 105mm howitzer is not a precision instrument – you set the direction and angle of the gun and then simply use gravity to hit the targets. There are multiple factors that go into working out where an unguided artillery shell is likely to land – wind speeds at different altitudes, the different muzzle velocity of each gun (which varies due to wear and tear and how many rounds each individual gun has fired), temperature, distance, weather, terrain, where the gun is in relation to your target. But without doubt the best way to ensure accuracy was to practise and practise and practise with the gun line to achieve speed of response and accuracy to the target. Actually, one of the first things that I had done on this tour, when it was clear that the company was going to require artillery on an almost daily basis, was to drive some 25km north of PB Khaamar during the handover between 1 LANCS and the Royal Welch and spend a couple of days taking time to make sure that I could land artillery shells where I wanted them to go. I patiently ‘fired out the error’ in each of the six guns in the battery that were supporting me. This meant that with good operators on the gun line, following the correct drills, I could be almost certain where each round would fall. There were so many factors to consider if you wanted to become good at it that some thought it was a bit of an art. My formula was practice, a cool head and attention to detail.
When the patrol commander called over to me, ‘Can you do anything?’ I was ready.
I scanned around. There were no compounds for at least 300m. ‘Yep – I’m going to use HE,’ I replied.
Bing’s eyes lit up.
I gave my orders to the guns. The company commander came on the net, to confirm my use of HE. I gave no reason, simply confirmed my weapon-to-target match. The fires net went very quiet. The artillery CO came onto the net and again asked me to confirm my weapon-to-target match.
‘Witchcraft four-three, this is Witchcraft zero-alpha. Confirm ammunition – HE?’
‘Roger. We are a good distance from the PB, engaging multiple firing points, ambush continuing, I confirm HE.’
I wasn’t asked again.
I had been by far and away the best at this job in my cohort for some time, and my CO knew this, having told me previously. My experiences on previous Afghanistan tours had helped enormously with my understanding of joint fires, too. It wasn’t natural ability; I had received a huge head start on my Special Forces tour.
The trouble is that no matter how many times you practise, doing it for real inevitably brings a distinct nervousness with it. I remember looking at Bing, who clearly didn’t give a shit about any of that and was wondering why I was taking so long.
I asked him to check my grid reference, and saw out of the corner of my eye that he was looking at his map.
‘Yeah, that’s good, boss, good grid,’ he said.
The intensity of the incoming gunfire had increased as the enemy had worked out that we were essentially pinned down and not going anywhere, but the pressure of dropping artillery shells in close proximity to friendly forces as quickly as possible drowned out any fear for my own safety.
I ordered the guns to fire, and we then had a fourteen-second wait to see where the rounds fell. There is no opportunity to recall them; your fate lies with your workings out (worrying, if you consider how bad at maths I was at school).
I ordered the patrol to take cover while I peered above the berm to observe fall of shot. Bing didn’t bother to pretend to take cover – he was grinning with excitement.
As soon as I’d given the order to fire I had that inevitable second thought, and asked Bing again what he thought of the grid I gave, only to notice his map was upside down.
‘You haven’t even fucking checked it,’ I said, unimpressed.
‘Yeah, sorry, boss. Just can’t wait to see it go off,’ he grinned.
‘That’s not really how it works, mate.’ They were the first cross words I had spoken to him.
Boom!
I’d ducked down for the impact, but immediately the shrapnel had passed over my head I looked up and saw from the smoke and falling undergrowth that the round had landed exactly where I had wanted it. The thunder of close range artillery is louder than anything you can imagine – it’s got a real bass resonance to it, and can be somewhat addictive. The ground shudders, the world stops.
The contact from the enemy stopped immediately.
I got on the radio. ‘Delta two zero, that is a delta hotel [direct hit] on the target area. Smoke clearing. Extracting now. Stand by for BDA [Battle Damage Assessment].’
‘See – you don’t need me to check.’
‘Not cool, Bing. That never happens again.’
‘OK. I’ll get the wets on when we get back. Don’t tell Baz.’
Over ICOM the enemy were screaming that there had been two fatalities.
The truth was that they had begun to take the piss out of us Brits and became lazy, because they thought we were so hesitant to use heavy weapons and would just extract using fire and movement.
As a patrol, we had a brief wash-up when we got back to base. In my head, I wanted to reinforce my view in a professional, officer-type manner that we needed to carry on in this vein if we were to make a difference in the nightmare that was the Jungle, and not be scared to use joint fires. That we needed to back ourselves, that I would always take the responsibility if required, but that we could not let ourselves be constrained by others’ interpretation of our situation and what we were doing.
I think it came out more like ‘If we don’t kill these fuckers, they’ll keep trying to kill us, and I’m not spending the next six months tiptoeing around the Jungle trying not to piss people off while finding locations for a school or something. This place is riddled with Talibs. If they want to fight, let’s kill them.’
I could see the blokes thought I was bit mad, but nothing wrong with that. Keeps them on their toes, I thought.
I was glad to have disappointed the ‘radio generals’ around the theatre, who listen all day and all night in their tents to the radios, trying to second-guess commanders and pick up on any cock-ups. Clearly I was feeling over-sensitive; not everyone listening in was like that at all. Some, like my friend Steve the quartermaster, really got it. Steve only listened in to see how he could help, and check we were OK. He worked seventeen-hour days for me and my team, making sure we had the right kit and equipment. He would often go down to the pan in Camp Bastion at 3 a.m. to get some mission-critical equipment onto a helicopter just before it was going to take off. Often that mission-critical equipment came with some sweets, magazines or coffee. He was the embodiment of a team player – he was all that is good in the late-entry commissioned officer community in the Army. That comforting hand, the dogged loyalty and the experienced wise head.
17
With the end of the poppy harvest in mid-May, the real summer had arrived, bringing with it temperatures in the forties and daily firefights with the enemy. Some of these would require the use of joint fires to end them, some did not. I was reluctant to engage unnecessarily, and thereby get a name for myself, but I was not prepared to see a British casualty because I had been slow off the mark. It was a balance, and I felt I was striking it.
When we weren’t patrolling, Bing, Baz and I had established a sort of ‘prison gym’ in the yard, and combined with patrolling twice a day with radios and equipment in excess of 80lb, it meant we were supremely fit. My smoking must have brought this down somewhat, and was beginning to get out of hand, but there was no other way to ameliorate eating the same food from the same ration packs day
after day. Baz taught me boxing. I was not great, but I think he quite enjoyed hitting me in the face (who wouldn’t?).
The average morning or sunset patrol would only last 3–4 hours; longer, deliberate operations could last anything up to two weeks. A patrol in the Jungle generally moved very slowly indeed. The front man will often be using a Vallon metal detector, constantly scanning the ground in front of him for IEDs. With any disturbance of the topsoil – or as we liked to say ‘the absence of the normal, and the presence of the abnormal’ – the patrol would halt to ascertain what lay beneath. This stop-start nature of the patrol, combined with a persistent shuffling of fire positions, going down on one knee and crawling around, required the sort of fitness it is simply impossible to train for. The aches and pains associated with constantly going down on one knee are something no soldier forgets quickly. Resilience is key.
On patrol one could easily slip into a slight sense of complacency and boredom, but that was a dangerous road to go down. To avoid it, I would be constantly looking for ditches and trees and other areas that would provide me with cover. I would also be scanning for potential firing points, and working out what I would do if we were to come under contact from a set point. I would be quietly chattering away continually to whomever was providing cover for us – either the gun line or an attack helicopter – commentating on what we were doing. These regular SITREPs often get forgotten about, but by now I had learnt that with a good series of SITREPs behind you, as soon as you came under contact it was far quicker and easier to engage the enemy using whichever platform you had at the end of the radio.
All these patrols were accompanied, of course, by a monkey on your shoulder called Fear. Some days you would be fine, and would saunter off up the track on your way to the bazaar to chat to some of the locals with violence far from your mind.
We Were Warriors Page 13