We Were Warriors

by Johnny Mercer

  All the while the enemy continued to engage. It was odd, because usually when a helicopter turned up the firing stopped, but with a casualty and a man isolated on his own, they thought we were trapped. It was bloody noisy, and I was struggling to hear everything on the radio.

  Finally, in the distance I could see the Cobra slowly turn to run in. I still wasn’t one hundred per cent happy. Fuck it, I thought, better safe than sorry. I threw a smoke grenade just in front of my position, even though I knew this would draw further fire.

  ‘That red smoke, red smoke is me. The red smoke is friendly forces. How copy?’

  ‘Roger. Red smoke friendlies. Am I clear to engage?’

  I still felt uncomfortable but I was going to unleash him anyway. The stakes were too high.

  ‘A-Firm. You are clear to engage twenty mike mike. Call engaging.’

  ‘Am I clear to engage?’ he shouted back, double checking. He was clearly uncomfortable as well.

  ‘Witchcraft four-three, A-firm. Dealer one-four, you are clear to engage with twenty mike mike. Call engaging.’

  ‘Roger. Engaging now.’

  The sound was deafening. All hell broke loose as the gunship’s Gatling vomited ammo right over my head. The rounds were not going into the target (later I found out there were families in the compounds the Taliban were using as firing points), but were tearing up the ground no more than 80m to my south.

  For a second I was confused about who the fuck was firing where. I thought the enemy had wheeled out one of the 12.7mm Dushka machine guns they saved for special occasions. But then I looked up and could clearly see the Cobra spitting lead into the ground. It was now or never.

  I got up and ran for the ditch to my front, where a collection of soldiers were now simultaneously engaging the enemy positions with machine guns. It was the noisiest battlefield I had ever heard.

  I’ve never been very quick on my feet, and this was no exception. It was only 300m or so, but it felt like a bloody long way. I didn’t feel out of breath but my legs were very heavy indeed and the ground was thick. As I ran I braced for the pain of a bullet ripping through me. I tried not to think about it, but it was tough.

  With the terrain and the weight of the kit, it took me about a minute to cover the distance. It was a very noisy minute.

  I dived into the ditch on my arse, behind the machine gunner.

  ‘Fucking hell, boss, that was like something out of a film,’ said a soldier I didn’t recognize.

  ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here, lads,’ I said. Oh, how I missed Baz.

  The Afghan soldier who was hit in the initial contact was deteriorating fast. I made my way up the drainage ditch to find the company commander. He wanted to get an HLS into the field behind us, but although the firing had abated as soon as I hit the ditch I advised him that the MERT may well come under contact again. I did not think the enemy position had actually been hit.

  ‘The ANA guy’s not going to live, Johnny. I want you to use a precision weapon on that compound,’ he told me. ‘I need you to get the MERT in.’

  The MERT was already wheels up from Bastion. The Apache that always accompanied it was now trying to get hold of me on the same frequency that I was talking to the Cobra on. I told him to stand by. I needed to give the guns new firing points too, but I’d been too busy to update them since I had been left behind. If it all went terribly wrong, I could potentially require them.

  The Cobra was relieved by the Apache and requested leave from my call sign. I thanked the pilot for his efforts and then heard Baz take control of him as he exited my airspace and headed back to Marjeh, where he was supporting an operation. It was comforting to hear Baz’s voice down the line. It was clear this Afghan’s life rested on our ability to neutralize a couple of targets and bring in the MERT.

  I walked away from the company commander and asked the gun line to wait for an update. They acknowledged and understood immediately.

  ‘Hello, Ugly five-one,’ I said to the Apache pilot, ‘this is Witchcraft four-three, how copy?’

  A posh British voice came back immediately. I was always surprised by the comforting calmness the Apache pilots projected to those of us stuck in the chaos of the explosions and the shootings.

  ‘Hello, Witchcraft four-three, this is Ugly five-one. I have you lima charlie.’

  ‘Witchcraft four-three, roger. Confirm you are happy with the AO and the situation update with this call sign.’

  ‘Roger. I have had an update from Witchcraft four-three alpha [Baz] and am happy with friendlies, happy with possible firing points to the south.’

  ‘OK. I am not the JTAC; I am close-combat attack-qualified, so I will give you a five-liner to confirm.’

  ‘Roger.’ Baz was the Joint Terminal Air Controller; I was not.

  ‘I have a Cat A casualty requires immediate CASEVAC from an HLS I will mark to the west. Firing points in and around the south of that position. They are sporadic at present, but will no doubt increase once the MERT is here.’

  ‘Roger.’

  ‘Standby for five-liner – you are to call for clearance.’

  With that I gave him the five-line engagement order. I repeated at the end of the call the request for clearance.

  The MERT was seven minutes out. I ran (shuffled) back over to the company commander and told him. I indicated the HLS and asked for a man with smoke to mark it. I told him not to release the smoke until I said so – we didn’t want to alert the enemy before the MERT was ready.

  The MERT called to confirm the HLS and I shouted over at one of the lads to release the red smoke.

  The MERT landed-on OK, but almost as soon as its wheels were down, a massive volley of shots rang out from the treeline to the south.

  As a patrol, we were lined up along a berm with the Chinook behind us. We were slightly covered from view and fire, but not to any great extent. The blokes engaged these enemy positions, and a fierce firefight erupted. I looked at the company commander and requested clearance to engage with the Apache.

  ‘Ugly five-one, you are clear to engage with thirty mike mike. Call engaging,’ I shouted over the noise. Before I finished the call, the Apache’s 30mm guns were rattling furiously.

  ‘Engaging under card alpha [rules of engagement],’ I could just about make out the pilot saying. ‘The MERT is receiving incoming fire.’

  Someone fired off an RPG from right next to me. I could not hear a thing.

  I took a moment in the chaos and looked back over my shoulder at the Chinook. The boys were running a man on a stretcher out to it. Ahead of me I could see the splash of the 30mm eating into the wall of the compound. I scanned for any enemy ‘squirting’ from the target, ready to engage them with my rifle. We could not lose the Chinook.

  The MERT pilot was ready to lift. He called for clearance on the radio. I was pressing it so hard to my ear that it must have looked like I was trying to insert it.

  ‘Stand by to lift. Await my call,’ I shouted. I yelled over at the company commander for an increased rate of fire. The patrol responded, as did the ANA. I could hear the Apache engaging as well. These enemy were giving it a good go. They wanted to down the Chinook.

  ‘Ugly five-one, confirm you are engaging, I need to lift the MERT.’

  ‘Roger. I have engaged three positions to the south. Do you require Hellfire?’ he asked, talking about his guided missile system, which I could use as well.

  I paused. The noise was insane – I could tell by the vibrations around my head more than anything, since the RPG had knocked out my hearing. The Apache was continuously firing above me. The MERT was turning and burning on the deck some 50m behind me. The entire patrol were engaging into the enemy positions from the berm-line I was crouched behind.

  ‘Ugly five-one, no. Continue with thirty mike mike for now. MERT, you are cleared to lift. Cleared to lift!’ I shouted.

  In that one moment, I realized why I loved the Army so much. The teamwork was extraordinary. I distinctly remember thinkin
g how brave those pilots were, sitting there with just a Perspex screen for protection, waiting for the command to lift. The lads all had their heads above the berm as they engaged the enemy position, determined to protect the helicopter. The pilot of the Apache gunship, coolly placing himself in harm’s way to protect the MERT. Discipline; control; courage; professionalism; teamwork; sacrifice. The British Armed Forces codified in one moment of battle.

  ‘Roger. Lifting now,’ said someone very calmly into the radio.

  The weight of fire increased – it was a bizarre incident. Usually the enemy would have desisted long ago. Usually if things kicked off to this extent it was because a commander was in the area and the local Taliban wanted to show off.

  The Chinook raised and flared backwards. The noise remained intense. He continued to lift and eventually he was nose down, chugging away from the scene and back to Bastion. As the noise from the helicopter faded, so the enemy fire seemed to dwindle and stop.

  By now we were only about two kilometres from PB Khaamar, and we started moving back in that direction, at a quicker pace now that the casualty was gone.

  As we neared the base we came under contact yet again, but this was harassing fire and didn’t feel particularly close. I stopped and urged the patrol to run past me back into the camp.

  I could hear the Apache engaging.

  ‘Ugly five-one, Witchcraft four-three. Can you confirm that is you into the original enemy position?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ve got enemy fire from one original position. I’ve engaged him under card alpha; I am going to put warning shots into the field behind you.’

  ‘OK. Thank you. Cleared to engage under card alpha.’

  The company commander ran past me. I told him what was going on and he was happy.

  I was last man in. I hadn’t had time to digest this manic patrol when Baz came over to me, flip-flops and shorts on, with his radio in his hand.

  ‘You are a fucking idiot,’ he said to me. ‘You are not going out again. No way. I’m not having it. These guys are a bunch of fucking idiots.’

  ‘Calm down, mate. Not here,’ I said, not wanting to cause a scene. He turned and stalked towards our tent.

  I was slightly bemused that I was the ‘fucking idiot’, but was touched by Baz’s concern for me. His behaviour was in stark contrast to the rest of the patrol as we stood and unloaded our weapons in the loading bay. After surviving a heavy contact, they had an overwhelming feeling of having got away with something, and the boys were understandably quite boisterous.

  I headed back to the tent, unable to speak. I felt the blood run to my head.

  I chucked my webbing and helmet onto my cot then flicked out the legs from the grip handle on my rifle and stood it up next to my bed. I looked at Mark’s empty bed space. How I could have done with him today.

  Then I wandered out to the back of the tent and sat on a brown 7.62mm ammo box. I pulled out my cigarettes – soaked with sweat and squashed. I tried to light one, but the sweat from my thumb had dampened the flint on the lighter. I couldn’t get a flame out.

  I put my head in my hands and shut my eyes, struggling to get a grip. I couldn’t stop shaking. The stress of the joint fires as a solo effort; the experience of being left behind on my own; the repeated stamping on the monkey of fear in my head and keeping it under control – I think I was beginning to max out with what I could cope with. I could literally feel my head reaching saturation point.

  Baz came in. He was never going to put his arm around me, but he silently offered me a lighter and I lit my cigarette. My hand was shaking more than usual; I couldn’t get the butt into my mouth. Every time I closed my eyes I was back in the bloody field on my own. Baz sat opposite me, across the table we had made out of HESCO and plywood. He didn’t know what to say.

  I chain smoked three or four cigarettes and gently forced my mind to settle down.

  I had, by this point, come close to being killed a few times, and my coping mechanism was very simple. The more I thought about it, the worse it got. So I forced myself to think about other things. If I was struggling to get out of the cycle of thoughts about dying, I would get up and do something else – physically move my body, go for a run. Eventually I settled down.

  The company didn’t do any more patrols that day, so Baz put a film on for us both to watch on his laptop. After the film had finished, the company sergeant major appeared at our tent door.

  He asked Baz if he could come in – something quite rare from a fairly rambunctious Warrant Officer Class 2. He found me out the back in my usual place, cleaning my kit and clearing some markings off my map.

  ‘All right, sir – mind if I sit down? You probably don’t want to see another soldier from this unit right now.’

  ‘Of course not, Sergeant Major – please do.’

  ‘One of my blokes has just told me that we left you behind today. Were you ever going to say anything to me?’

  ‘I didn’t want to say anything – it was a genuine fuck-up in the fog of combat, and I didn’t want to make a fuss.’

  ‘OK. I’m sorry. I just felt I should come over and apologize.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m just going to try and forget about it and we’ll go again in the morning,’ I said.

  ‘Do you want to come and talk to the company commander? He wants to see you. You did seriously fucking well today.’

  ‘No – I’m going to spend some time with Baz, and then we’ll go again tomorrow,’ I replied. My relationship with the company commander was not strong, which is why he’d sent the sergeant major to see me rather than come himself.

  ‘OK. Well, like I said, I’m sorry. Should never have happened.’

  ‘No dramas. Move on.’

  With that he left. He was clearly very uncomfortable.

  In truth, I didn’t need anyone to talk to me about it. I felt like I was now the senior, most experienced and – given my control of joint fires – the most capable soldier on the ground in this area of operations. If it was going to happen to anyone, it may as well be me.

  And so much of this fucking war was luck.

  29

  Battle trauma, for me personally, was something I was simply not prepared to think about. I felt that if I opened that particular Pandora’s box, I would not be able to shut it again. I had made a good friend early on in the tour. He was a good bloke – intelligent, thoughtful and a good soldier. He was brave, didn’t flinch under fire. Baz, Bing and I would invite him into our tent to have a coffee and shoot the shit; we were all ‘attached ranks’ to this company group, rather than being a permanent part of the regiment, and shared a sort of camaraderie in that respect.

  One day in July, one of the combat logistic patrols had issued us some new body armour plates. These were to complement our existing Osprey body armour system by slotting into our side pouches, to protect us from small-arms fire just under each arm.

  I carried an awful lot of kit – plenty of ammunition as well as all of the comms kit and optics that I needed for my role – so I made the decision to not wear these plates. I assessed that I was slow enough as it was, and I did not want to be encumbered any more while in contact with the enemy. It was a calculated risk I was prepared to take.

  My friend, however, decided the other way, carefully fitting his new plates into his Osprey to give him maximum protection. On our very next patrol he was shot in the side but the round pinged off his new plate.

  Something in his head snapped. He had to be extracted as a casualty despite having no physical injury; he just could not compute what had happened to him. I went to see him as soon as we got back from the patrol. I can picture him now, sitting on the floor, leaning against the HESCO, with the medic, about to be evacuated by helicopter. It was perhaps the worst case of battle shock I had seen in a British soldier up to that point. I put my arm around him and consoled him, but spoke no words. It was devastating to see a man so strong, yet so completely broken by battle. It had a profound effect on me,
and I suspect anyone who saw it. It demonstrated to me the vicious and unpredictable effects of trauma on the mind.

  The Army had by now recognized that they must do something – anything – to try and mitigate the impact of mental trauma on our servicemen and women fighting wars overseas, very disconnected from the society from whose ranks they are drawn. But because the war was on the other side of the world and seemed so distant – despite attempts by our military and political leaders to relate it to domestic security – and perhaps because many just simply did not want to acknowledge what we were doing to keep them safe and to resource care correctly, mental health provision for armed forces personnel and their families at the time was woeful.

  By 2010, the Army had introduced something called TRIM (Trauma Risk Management) practitioners – soldiers who would undertake a very brief training session before being expected to identify and report those at greatest risk of trauma in their unit for further attention from the medical officer or mental health teams in Bastion.

  The first time I came across a TRIM practitioner was on a particularly bad day, back when the Royal Welch were still in PB Khaamar – right at the beginning of my tour. An engineering patrol was passing to the north of our patrol base along the road that runs alongside the NEB Canal when the road collapsed at a junction, and the armoured vehicle carrying six soldiers entered the water.

  All of the soldiers managed to escape, except one who was trapped by his arm under the vehicle and could not get to the surface. Everything possible was tried to release him. It was a visceral struggle for life.

  We landed-on an American MEDEVAC team at my HLS, and even considered using the helicopter to try and lift the vehicle just an inch, to allow us to get the soldier out. The Americans finally brought in some specialist equipment and we were able to free the man but by that stage there was no chance of resuscitating him. It was a devastating experience for all.

  The man was brought back to the patrol base in a poncho – sometimes used as a body bag. The company commander and I picked him up and took him to the HLS, where we had called for a MERT to take the body back to Bastion. We had him on a stretcher, but the man and his clothing were almost entirely filled with water, and I could tell the stretcher was not going to take his weight for the short transfer to the helicopter.