“But we don’t want any more of this as the locals are blaming you people for bringing this upon them,” replied the elder.
Az made it clear his belief that the corrupt Afghan Government would lose, not just because they were not real Muslims, but because they had none of the technology with which to win the war after the infidels had left. It was just a matter of time before the final victory and the elder nodded graciously.
“Once the foreigners leave, the ANA will not be able to fight. Most of them are not even from this part of Afghanistan and they don’t want to be here. All the foreigners will have to leave soon anyway; they cannot afford the war as their corrupt economies are in meltdown. Their people have now had enough of the sight of coffins being dragged home.”
Az wasn’t bothered if he himself was killed or captured or mutilated. However, he did have one problem; he was going to have to kill British soldiers. It was the Americans he especially hated. He just wished the Brits would go home, as it wasn’t their time or place. But the job had to be done.
Most Afghans regarded the British as the main aggressor, the traditional enemy stretching back two centuries. Nearly every Afghan child was brought up with that knowledge. Az was also aware that his comrades knew that he had lived a long time in London. They didn’t seem to trust him completely even though he displayed more technical competence than anyone else and spoke better Arabic.
He started to drift off with his thoughts, and remembered the words of an Imam: “Unless this war is won against corruption in the world we would have ignored the lessons of history; and we will drift back into a new dark age. Some despotic leaders aligned to the US are even using terror to increase their own powers. We have to resist them and destroy them.”
He nestled the AK47 on his knees and looked up at the stars.
“You don’t see this sky in London. If only some of those creeps back home had the guts to do this as well. We could get it all over with so much more quickly. But they’d rather go out and pretend their lives meant something working in a fucking trading estate somewhere. This is what life means, being here right now - facing the enemy.”
***
“What’s that?” the Combat Medical Technician shouted as he poured a bottle of red liquid over the soldier’s foot. There was a pause; and a few confused looks amongst the audience of commandos, infantrymen and other assorted soldiers.
“It’s blood,” came the reply.
“Yes, and what else?” shouted the CMT.
“Body fluids.”
“And what’s going to happen to his leg when he steps on a device? Come on don’t be shy.”
“It gets blown off.”
“And ?… Come on, someone must know.” Another pause. “OK I will tell you; he loses a fuck of a lot of blood. How much do you reckon his lower leg will hold?”
“About 1.5 litres?” someone replied.
“Anyone else?”
“About 3 litres?”
“No; 1.5 litres wasn’t a bad guess. It depends on weight, build and height.”
“Your femur once subjected to the force of an IED blast will travel up into your pelvis so always look at internal damage around the pelvic region. I have had to pick the eyelets out of guys’ balls, faces and other parts of their bodies. Not to mention pieces of bone; so always check for bleeding and signs of internal damage. What about the arms? You guys always raise your arms when going round corners and devices are often planted on corners of compounds – so guys often get blast injuries under the arms.”
The CMT could teach the lesson backwards if asked. It was probably one of the best lessons Joe had sat through in his life and it was certainly the most relevant to his immediate situation and that of the others. The CMT carried on explaining the best methods for saving lives and how to avoid being a casualty in the first place. One top tip was “always second guess what’s coming.” The CMT had done three tours and every tour had involved twelve hour patrols. The soldiers lapped up his every word. The rest of the day’s training was on mobile and dismounted patrols.
On the way back to the transit tents Joe and Cam bumped into another soldier who had been training with them in England. Cam was now a warrant officer and the major was quick to recognize him.
“Wow ‘Q’ - look at you with your tailored hats! I, on the other hand, look like an Australian in need of a BBQ,” the medical officer observed. A tailor had not yet cut down the man’s large issued floppy hat. Nearly all soldiers did it once they had got in-country as a matter of style.
“Carry on like that and you’ll probably find one; how are you, sir?” Cam replied. “Bit different training out here, isn’t it!”
The man was another unit’s MO and he started kicking sand over ants crawling around the desert floor. Cam and Joe looked at each other and smiled.
“Sir; how many days training have you got here then?” asked Joe.
“Just got in, but I think I’ll be doing the whole eight or nine days. Not sure yet, as it goes.”
“Oh well; I’ll buy you a coffee later if we catch you in the NAAFI,” replied Cam. “Stop bothering those ants, sir. They’ll come after you – they never forget a face - or an untailored hat!”
For the following day’s training, the last for Joe and Cam, there were vehicle drills including the Mastiff armoured vehicle training where a simulated Mastiff hold was turned upside down with them inside. The afternoon consisted of a small field exercise: approaching a vulnerable point on foot Cam and Joe’s team would carry out Op Barma de-mining methods using hand held detectors in front of the vehicle convoy, maintaining the forty metre bubble from the ECM suite inside the vehicles. As it was training there would inevitably be a pyrotechnic IED at some point.
They had done something similar eighteen months before, but they were a bit more wary this time as they knew they would be out on the ground a lot more. Joe was down as the section commander in charge of the ‘Barma’ team who would clear up to the VP while Cam had to organize them all and keep in touch with them by radio, telling them to keep in the right formation as he stood central and rear to them. It wasn’t easy and in the forefront of his mind was that he and Cam both knew that they would be using road moves between PBs and FOBs. Along with the medical briefings, it could literally save their lives. In the event the team got wiped out in the training exercise.
***
Khalil had struggled with much of what had been said at the recent Justice Party meeting. He was fed up of being used as some “token ethnic” and wanted to get away from them completely for a while. Saira didn’t seem to understand. Her head was full of wedding dresses and cribs. She lived in a perpetual haze of fabrics and colours and there were plenty of bright fabrics draped around the flat; samples for a future house.
“What do you think; would these go OK together?” Saira asked holding up some fabrics.
“I don’t know, love; it all looks nice to me,” replied Khalil.
“That’s not very helpful. You must have some opinions.”
“Yeah; come to think of it they do look good,” he said unconvincingly.
“I really wish you would switch on.”
He had been reading a book about finance whilst tapping occasionally at his laptop, but his mind kept wandering. Saira found it infuriating. She knew he was stressed out.
“What do those political people want from you now? You haven’t yet landed a single decent contract from them.”
“You’re right - I should assert myself more. I’ve been a pushover; done all they asked and got nothing back. They’re probably just testing me out but I’ve had enough of it.”
Saira looked up concerned. “Well jack it in if it bothers you that much. What are they called again; the BJP is it?”
“I just can’t, not now. I wish you wouldn’t call it the BJP, Saira. They were Indians.”
“Darling, I don’t care what they are called. Just leave the bastard organization. We have plenty else to do in life; you know, like get married.
Have this baby.”
He pushed the laptop and book aside and put his arms around her.
“It’s hard trying to be normal, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes; I think I know what you mean,” she said laughing and giggling.
He resolved that he would refuse to do any more editing and writing of Jeff’s political literature for now; nor would he distribute any more leaflets or forms. He would make it clear to Jeff that he had a business to run and an expectant partner; soon to be wife.
***
The men were bringing all the items into the compound. Az checked how much HME was inside the palm oil containers. He would have liked for something other than such obviously yellow tubs, as he knew they were the first place the British soldiers would check for explosives. The battery packs, detonators and switches were all there as well. He just had to get the walls dug out. The charges would be placed in staggered locations up the lane towards the checkpoint.
For now all the kit would be put into storage. It would still be a few days before it could be used. There would be a time and Az resolved that he would have to pray about it first and then maybe, “Inshallah!” he would get an answer.
He also wanted to brief the men under him in some of the fighting techniques he had learnt. He wanted to impart as much knowledge as possible especially to the younger fighters. Afghanistan would never be his home; he didn’t like the customs amongst other things. But it was still a “righteous war” against the invaders.
He had received a number of email messages – a contact used an internet terminal in Kandahar to check messaging for those who wanted it and then sent the printed messages to those concerned. Az hadn’t bothered replying and couldn’t believe how lame some of them were; Khalil joining a political party, as if he gave a damn! He was more concerned about cousin Wazir; he didn’t want him to follow in his own footsteps. It had been his personal choice to come and fight and it had come at the right time for him. Wazir wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing and he didn’t want him tempted.
“A-salaam alaykum,” he muttered to one of the men who had come towards him.
“Where are we putting?” the man said in broken English, pointing at the containers.
Az gestured at his watch. It was a sign that he had everything under control.
***
“I don’t know, but the last middle-class person in Scotland was killed at a Celtic-Rangers game in the late nineties of course.” Cam was replying to Joe’s question if any English people were left in Scotland. They were sat in the NAAFI at Camp Bastion Two, playing Scrabble and watching a Celtic v Rangers football match, which, according to Cam, seemed to involve a good deal of violence with occasional outbreaks of football.
“Yeah, I seem to remember reading about it in the papers,” Joe observed.
They were just happy to have completed the training package. Now it was nearly time for doing some actual work after lolling around Camp Bastion for a day. They would soon be going to their jobs in the PBs and FOBs.
“It seems to me that if it weren’t for the Jocks, Fijians and blacks there wouldn’t be many people left in the British Army,” observed Cam.
“So you haven’t met any Scousers, Brummies, Geordies, Taffs or Micks then? Not to mention the Mercians or Anglians…seems to me that you’ve been reading the graffiti in the ablutions, Cam; that the Jocks have already won the war here. The sooner you lot form your own country the better,” Joe replied.
“That’s a bit racist, Joe,” replied Cam.
“You should hear what I have to say about the Northern Irish; talk about low on chromosomes. They’re like the Jocks; best ignored. But hey, I’m too middle-class to be a racist; I’m not like you working class people,” replied Joe.
“Too fucking right, you’re not! By the way it’s not a war; it’s a conflict,” Cam observed. “Something to do with life insurance.”
Joe knew from his first tour that Camp Bastion could be a boring and routine place to be stationed compared to the rest of Helmand Province. The wind would whip across the large sandy areas with ISO containers dotted around them. But the more you went outside the wire the more you realised there was a real country there; with hills, trees, birds, rivers and the local Afghan people. In other words they might be working in the desert camp for some of the time but the main aim was to get out of there and do some work - after days of training they were beginning to go stir crazy.
It would be a competition to get on Combat Logistic Patrols or helicopters just as it had been eighteen months before. Even if you were picked to go that didn’t mean you were definitely going. And if you thought you were on a helicopter flight as you made your way across the tarmac you could be bumped off at the last minute, having been sand-blasted on the edge of the helipads whilst waiting for the Sea King or Merlin that never was. It was then a long walk back to your tent with all your kit.
However, they both knew there was some hard work ahead of them and the temperatures were getting hotter by the day. How they would travel outside the wire was not their most pressing concern.
***
Az had been trying to get some idea of what had happened to the two wounded men who had accidentally initiated the command pull device before getting away from the site. It hadn’t been in his immediate area, but he was aware that the two would be questioned and give away vital information on their group.
“Salaam alaykum,” he said to the Taleb chief, who replied with the usual, “Waleikum salaam.”
“Hagha cheri wasu?” Az asked, requesting to know where the incident had taken place.
“Shaa o khwaa NES.” The Commander wasn’t being helpful; stating that it had happened “around” NES, which was a large area.
“Hagha kala waswal?” Az asked; when had it happened?
“Parun, parun,” came the reply; yesterday.
“Haghoi cheri di?” Where were they? Az enquired.
“Roghtun; Kamp. Bartanawi askar.” Just as Az had expected they had been taken to the British Hospital at Camp Bastion. Ultimately they would more than likely give away vital information on what was taking place in the NES South area, but it would take a while for them to come out of shock. And they would probably not be that accurate for various reasons, not least their own lack of understanding of the situation.
For Az he was looking forward to being more active and he didn’t want a minor incident to hold up his own activities. He knew that the prepping they were doing would this time result in some serious activity, but he didn’t know exactly when yet. He also realised that the local Taleb commander probably didn’t know either; it was dependent on the situation, and in particular the local conditions.
***
The Main Operating Base at Price and Brigade HQ at Lashkar Gah were just staging posts; from either you could get a Mastiff to any of the other British bases in Helmand. Joe and Cam had been made aware that they would probably be based at one of those locations and this was especially true now UK forces had left Sangin and Musa Q’aleh where they had been eighteen months previous.
The following morning Joe was ordered to get to the helipad in order to go to Lashkar Gah for a job. It was just a Merlin ride there and back for a couple of days. Jez, the sergeant leading that task, had more experience on the ground in Afghanistan than anyone else Joe had met. They would have to liaise with the local “Call signs” and teams trained to deal with the ANA who were based mainly in the patrol bases.
Jez always had a few short anecdotes. His face was leathered by too many patrols under the sun; a man of few words, but great humour. He was the focus for the group of regulars. Each task he had done in his various roles as a soldier had fulfilled him in a new and different way, every bit of knowledge creating a new avenue of expression. He brought it all to the laps of the other men.
After completing the weapon forensics task they flew back to Camp Bastion where they worked with the rest of the Intel unit and relaxed as much as possible away from the searing heat,
high winds and constant drone of helicopters and aircraft. The constant hum about the place was only really noticeable at night time. Remarkably Joe found he could sleep very well despite the occasional ball-aching sound of a C17 taking off; he found it quite therapeutic. Others were not so lucky.
In between tasks Joe found that along with Cam and several of the regular soldiers they were working with their names were down to mount guard on the Taleban prisoners. They were all given their allotted slots in the coming days and weeks between going to PBs and FOBs. As it turned out, the guard duty was a surprisingly straightforward task and only involved six hours on and six hours off. This included several hours in a sangar overlooking the prisoners, two hours on the gate and two hours in the hospital guarding wounded Taleban fighters.
The two prisoners in the hospital had been wounded running from an IED that had accidentally initiated after they had planted it. One had lost his legs and suffered serious injuries to his back and an arm; the other had shrapnel holes through him. They were in remarkably good shape and the one with his legs intact shuffled around the ward once an hour. Others in the ward were also missing limbs; the medics were constantly upbeat and groaned every time the prisoners groaned as if mimicking them. On the night shift Joe fell asleep for an hour. He woke up at 3.00am with a sore head wondering what was happening. One of the Talebs was staring at him. Joe stared back. On his return to the forensics unit he was given a full report about how the young jangalay had been injured. According to the captain in charge of their unit Joe and Cam would be going to that location at some point in the near future.
***
Az had found out that the two ‘men’ taken prisoner were in fact boys and didn’t know much anyway. They had apparently only been around a short while and he had probably brushed shoulders with them at the safe house a few days prior to the explosion. From what he had heard even if they hadn’t blown themselves up the device would have been spotted easily by a foot patrol. The Talebs were joking about the boys, which Az found mildly disgusting. At some point he knew he would come to blows with these so-called comrades and he didn’t rate his own chance of survival. That’s if a UAV didn’t waste him and his cohort beforehand.
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