Since time immemorial, I suspect junior officers like me have always performed above their very average natural ability or fortitude because a sergeant major’s wrath or disdain was more frightening than anything the enemy could do to you.
But this day something else clicked in my head. After Bing’s death, I had struggled. I now knew the risks, and couldn’t close my eyes to them in the way I perhaps had before. But slowly and surely I had forced myself to be brave again over the last month or so. Today, on my painfully slow walk over the wadi, I had retained the discipline to face incoming fire and operate at the standards I had always tried to achieve throughout my short and unremarkable career to date. I felt I had crossed a threshold. It had taken me a month or so, but I was now back and feeling up for the fight again, just as I had when Bing was with me. It’s hard to put into words but I felt better, and confident, for the first time, that I might actually see out this tour.
27
Baz was not so lucky as he wrestled with the same feelings. Around the time of the sergeant major’s injury, I bumped into him outside our tent after a morning patrol. I was heading off for a shit, and he had just got off the phone – it was breakfast time in the UK. Again, the moment is imprinted on my mind. He was in his combat trousers and flip-flops, no top. Every time I saw him like this it struck me how skinny he was. With his mop of spiky hair, he resembled a bog brush.
He said to me his wife was expecting. He had previously spoken to me about how he found it tougher and tougher to go out of the gate, and now he was concerned that the news might affect him further.
I took him inside, fired up the stove for a coffee and cracked open another packet of Maiwand cigarettes. I told him I completely understood and that I pretty much felt the same every single day. I thought about doing the whole officer piece, saying it was a noble fight and all the rest of it. But Baz deserved better than that.
‘If I could go home right now I would,’ I said. ‘I fucking hate it. I actually shit myself on patrol when you weren’t here.’
After a period of thoughtful silence watching the stove bubble away, Baz remarked how awful it would be if, having endured all that we had, we ended up getting killed right at the end of our tour.
‘Yeah, thanks, mate,’ I said dryly.
I said that I didn’t feel we had an officer–soldier relationship any more and that our mutual experiences were so defining, so deep, that I was not going to tell him what to do, and neither was I going to tell anyone else about it. I said to him that while I felt exactly the same as him, I was in a different position, given my rank, experience and conduct expectations.
The truth was that in the Army I did have my suspicions that the officer corps could sometimes be too much about mess dress and sucking up to the CO, and too little about sacrificing your time and energy almost exclusively for those under your command. This is a terrible generalization, but I was coming across my fair share of examples. I saw my role very differently, but my way was not always the best way – I freely admit that. I was too involved, too close to the men, too keen to get stuck in.
The answer was probably somewhere in the middle. Most of the officers were much better than me, but I always felt the privilege of commanding men weighing heavily upon me. I felt unworthy in a way, and may have over-compensated.
I think a lot of it was to do with the fact that I saw myself as a soldier really, not an officer. I was not comfortable with people assuming I was above them. Perhaps this was because of my internal struggles, which were a great source of humility. It is tough to tell someone off when, as a grown man, you can’t leave the shower block without washing your hands ten times.
I found that my natural home in the Army was with the corporals and bombardiers more than anyone else – including the senior NCOs and officers. These junior NCOs were my age; I went drinking with them; they knew about my oddities and didn’t care; they were my mates. I loved being on patrol with them. They would call me Johnny and not ‘sir’. I knew this was wrong, but throughout my time in the Army I cannot recall a single moment where I detected a lack of respect from anyone, even if from one or two it was begrudging. I had a sort of brutal honesty, which I think they liked.
I suppose, ultimately, I considered myself as one of them who had just got a bit fortunate because I had managed to bluff my way into Sandhurst and beyond. Above all I suppose I respected the junior ranks, and treated them accordingly. I would never let a soldier leave my office after a difficult performance review or conversation until they completely understood and agreed with me. This was, admittedly, odd; some in the Army seem to get off on giving a good bollocking. But I just did not feel it was my place to do so – I would far rather persuade someone of their errors, with them totally understanding what they had done wrong, thus giving them a chance to avoid doing it in future and improve on their performance.
I looked on other officers, who enjoyed losing their temper and ordering people around, with a mix of bemusement and sympathy.
‘Baz, I can’t change now, mate,’ I said to him. ‘You know what I’m like. I’m gonna go out. I can take both radio sets and do it myself, using you in the Ops room.’
We finished our conversation and I went for a run around the PB without my music, so I could think.
Baz was one of the bravest men I knew. I reflected on our time together. He was a deeply professional man. I had liked and respected him from the start, and indeed came to love him in the years ahead. He has more loyalty, devotion and courage than I will ever have and we shared some life-changing moments. He is just so selfless – always the one who would move position, potentially exposing himself to enemy fire, to get a better signal for our radios, as he barked orders that would rain death on our adversaries. He never wanted me to look bad (quite some task). He was a genuine privilege to command. I will never forget his actions that summer.
My first patrol without Baz felt extremely lonely. Up to that point I had been childishly reassured by the knowledge that Baz was there to sort it all out if I cocked up. Patrols were doing things that relied on me executing a joint fires plan to get us out of trouble, rather than being overrun and massacred. The sustained pressures of working with patrols who would deliberately do dangerous things because they knew that you – as an individual – would get them home safe, was extraordinary. Previously I had shared that with Baz. Now it was mine alone. I felt an overwhelming pressure on me to perform that I hadn’t truly felt earlier in the tour, even though it was most certainly there.
As an officer, I could sometimes be lazy with my kit and equipment, but now it was all down to me I became obsessive about checking batteries, sights, firing pins and the like. The experience made me a better soldier.
28
My birthday had come and gone. I was twenty-nine years old. The Afghan summer was, perhaps, finally beginning to turn. The heat had come down to the upper thirties and, crucially, nights were cooler; allowing deeper, more restful sleep between patrols.
The patrol tempo itself increased, as we felt we were beginning to get on top of the enemy in the Jungle. As we headed out on one morning patrol I realized it was the August bank holiday weekend in the UK. The Barbican in Plymouth would be a scene of carnage by the end of the day.
We were conducting a standard doubled-up patrol (about twenty blokes), led by the company commander with the newly healed company sergeant major in tow. We patrolled into an area that had previously been heavily occupied by the Taliban, but was now much quieter after recent weeks of fighting. Arriving before first light, we watched the locals conducting their morning routine before revealing ourselves and chatting to a few of the landowners. They were happier, but stressed that the Taliban had not gone away for good.
We had just begun our extraction back west towards our PB when an RPG flew straight into a group of Afghan soldiers at the rear of our patrol, and was followed up with bursts of automatic weapon fire into all of us. Not surprisingly, the patrol immediately sustained multiple ca
sualties.
At the precise moment of impact from that RPG, I was mid-way across a 500m wide field, ploughed and ready for planting. I followed the correct drills as I swivelled to my left in the direction of the lone firing point to the south, and dropped to one knee to start engaging the enemy with my weapon. After a moment, I realized I couldn’t hear anyone else returning fire, and I looked around me.
For reasons I could not fathom then or since no one else returned fire. The troops in front of me had forgotten all their training and legged it to a ditch about 300m in front. Simultaneously, the troops behind me had run 300m in the other direction to a ditch we had passed before entering the field.
I was alone in the middle of a field, now the sole target of enemy automatic-weapon fire.
As I threw myself to the ground, I could hear that the group behind me were dealing with a Category A injury to an Afghan soldier; the others seemed to be walking wounded. The rate of fire from the enemy increased substantially – either because they knew we had taken a casualty, or they could see me alone in the field, I could not tell which.
I was lying face down in the dirt. I tried to get up a couple of times, but found myself instinctively ducking down again as rounds ripped past my head.
It took almost all my courage to change magazines and get up on one knee and put some rounds into the enemy position, but this seemed to anger the enemy and their fire increased, now from a second position.
The rounds were ‘bracketing’ me – meaning some were landing to the left of me and some to the right. The Taliban usually had very poor or no sights on their weapons, but if they bracketed the target, they could correct their fire until they hit it. It was clear that sooner or later one of these rounds was going to find me.
I was totally fixed in position, on my own, being used as target practice by the enemy.
I thought the only thing that would definitely stop a round with my name on it would be my helmet. I changed my body position to ensure that my helmet was facing the enemy, and got as low as I could between two ploughed furrows. I don’t know what the fuck I was doing. I suppose I thought that if I hid, the enemy might stop shooting me. They were stupid, but perhaps not that stupid.
To my left, I could see a medical evacuation party who were now going to box round me behind some compounds, with their casualty. They clearly had no idea I was there, or had forgotten me in the mayhem.
I was convinced I was going to die. I could not move. I’d be dead if I had just got up and bolted. The rounds were now single shot from these two same enemy positions, trying to pick me off. They were kicking up the dirt around me. I hoped death would be painless but I suspected it wouldn’t be. I’ve never been so scared, before or since. People talk about what comes into your mind when you are about to die. Some mention poignant things like their mother, or their children, some think of regrets. Well, I may be a bit too simple, but I just wondered how much it was going to hurt.
But then that old fighting spirit came to me again. For some reason, I thought of my forefathers, who had died so bravely at Normandy. I don’t know why I always thought of them. I remember as a boy learning about the war, struggling to understand the commitment required to lay down your life on the altar of your country’s freedom. I thought most of them probably died like this. Not in some glorious charge; not with others watching them sacrifice all they have for their freedom. Just shit scared. On their own.
Again, for some strange reason I thought to myself, Make sure you die like a man. Don’t embarrass yourself.
I kept trying to crawl around into a fire position so I could see the enemy properly, but every time I did that the rounds seemed to get closer. While attempting this, I did finally spot some action in the fire team to my front. A young lad on the end of the patrol had seen me, and he was frantically calling his section 2IC to come and take a look.
The section 2IC just stared at me, mouth agape. It then clicked that the only person who was going to get me out of this was myself; no one was going to do it for me. The guys’ immediate reaction to leaving someone behind was to panic; the patrol commander was busy sorting out the Cat A casualty. I had the radio on my back and the skills to bring down some heavy fire onto the enemy position. I resolved to blast my way out of this, or at least try.
I stopped using my personal weapon, and instead I pulled my map out of my trouser pocket. I had a good look at where I was and where the gun battery was located. I was so nervous my fingers were damp with sweat and my markings on the map smudged as I tried to read them.
The guns had performed so well for me on this tour. I could bring them to bear relatively quickly and land a couple of rounds of HE in the field to my front; that should give the enemy a shock and enable me to run.
As luck would have it, I was directly on ‘line gun-target’ – an imaginary line that you could draw on a map through the gun line and the target. This meant that any over-shoot would land directly on me, and given that I was in the ‘beaten zone’ (the oval shaped area that you draw in your mind over every target to allow for minor errors), the risk was extremely high.
I could drop the rounds short of the target, but then they would land in some dwellings, and I would not be able to see fall of shot. I grudgingly accepted in my mind that to use artillery in this engagement would be foolish.
My heart sank a little, as I couldn’t think of another quick option that would give me an opportunity to escape. But now, quietly determined to try and fight my way out of this situation, I decided to go with the last resort. My radio was capable of being retuned and talking to aircraft. Retuning it would mean exposing myself to the enemy and increasing my chances of getting picked off, but if I did I could talk to the controlling air station and request some sort of emergency platform to assist me.
I was aware that this was a risk. I did not want to overplay my situation – was I really cut off? I would hate to cause a fuss for nothing. But I did not want to die.
I opened my bag and fiddled with the bloody annoying LCD display to flick onto the air net. Out were the days of dials and knobs; in were buttons and LCD displays, which were not particularly good when one is overcome by sweat and fear.
I calmed myself down, changed the net and put a call out to the controlling joint fires station.
‘Hello, any call sign, any call sign, this is Witchcraft four-three. Requesting immediate emergency CAS. Man isolated on his own in contact.’
The fire from the enemy positions seemed to pick up a little, as if they were listening. I was focused now on getting out. I ignored it.
Nothing came out of my radio.
I took out my compass and made sure my SATCOM was facing south-west. It wasn’t. I turned my body, exposing my front above the furrow, and tried again.
‘Hello, any call sign, any call sign, this is Witchcraft four-three. I require immediate emergency CAS. Man isolated on his own in contact.’
‘Hello, Witchcraft four-three, this is Widow four-zero. I have you lima charlie [loud and clear]. I will rebroadcast your call. Standby.’
Before they could talk to me again, a thick American drawl came over the net.
‘Hello, Witchcraft four-three, this is Dealer one-four. I am a Cobra gunship and Huey pairing. I am currently supporting an operation to the south of thirty-one west, I am transiting now to you, confirm location of man left behind.’
I gave the pilot a brief, including my own grid position, trying desperately not to sound like I was as scared as I was. I knew this was again being listened to in headquarters, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself.
‘Witchcraft four-three. Roger. If you look into the area of that grid there is a lone figure in the field, he is in the prone position facing south, isolated on his own.’
‘Dealer one-four. Roger. Looking.’ He came back on the radio to say, ‘I’ve got two firing points in two separate compounds. I have a good contact with firing points; I also have what looks like good contact with friendlies in the treeline, eng
aging those firing points.’ The pilot failed to identify me. ‘Witchcraft four-three, this is Dealer one-four. As I approach can you confirm I am clear to engage targets with twenty mike mike.’
‘You are not clear to engage!’ I shouted quickly into the handset. ‘You are not clear to engage.’
I was not content that he knew exactly where I was. There was a critical difference between a US Cobra and a UK Apache that I was aware of. The main 20mm armament cannot swivel on the Cobra, and as such it can only fire in the direction that the helicopter is heading. The helicopters were approaching from the south; any splash from the target, or slight misunderstanding of my positon, and he would hit me.
I calmly (or so I thought) did a proper, line-by-line talk-on to my position. He finally identified me using his thermal imagery. I had no idea that UK camouflage was so good.
‘Er. OK, I now have contact with a lone individual closer to the firing points to the south in the prone position. I believe he too is facing south, in the middle of that field.’
‘Roger. That individual is me,’ I said.
‘Ah, OK, roger, roger.’
The pilot seemed not to have realized this before but now his tone became more urgent. I was feeling deeply uncomfortable with this particular control. You can often sense how an engagement is going to go by the nature of your conversation with a pilot or gunner. If you both quickly recognize the same points on the ground, and the talk-on to targets flows easily, you start to build confidence in each other. This had not happened in this case.
I gave the helicopter his five-line fire control orders as he completed a seemingly endless loop behind the target, out to the east, and lined himself up for a north–south line of attack.
We Were Warriors Page 20