‘Ready, guruji haru? Ready, bhai haru?’ It’s too loud inside a Chinook to be heard, but they each got my meaning. One by one, my seven brothers, the seven men under my command, nodded as I looked into their eyes.
‘Ready, guruji,’ they mouthed in reply, each in turn. ‘Yes, Kailash bhai. Ready.’ Seven times.
Even at times of maximum stress, we Gurkhas remember our manners. Bhai means ‘younger brother’. Guruji means, literally, ‘honourable teacher’. It is used by juniors towards their seniors. But it is also used by soldiers senior in rank towards someone lower in rank if the junior person joined up before you. Rank does not confer more honour than age.
Haru, by the way, just signifies more than one.
We had been airborne since 1300 local time – just about fifteen minutes by now, so we were more than two thirds of the 40 miles to the HLS, the Helicopter Landing Site – and I needed to be sure everyone was ready. The thing is, when you are on the journey out to an operation, you are keyed up to the maximum. That doesn’t have to be said. But your mind can wander. You start thinking about home, about your family and loved ones. In my own case, I was thinking about Anish, my son born just two weeks earlier. I wondered whether I was ever going to see him again. I realised I might not.
But there comes a moment when you need to focus. You have to snap out of your thoughts about home and about what might happen. And we had reached that moment. The point when we needed to be fully alert to the task in hand, when we needed to let go of those warm thoughts, and the nervous thoughts too. Because when we got there, we had just one minute. The Chinook was carrying twenty-seven men with full kit and we were packed tight. We had a lot of gear with us, but only one minute. Could we do it?
Because at sixty seconds, the pilot was going to firewall the throttle and head for home.
Sixty seconds. Not sixty-one. Sixty seconds for all us of us to get out with every item we needed for a full-scale operation, and for the men we were relieving to get on board. That isn’t long when you’ve got as much stuff with you as we were carrying then.
It would not matter if you had to go back to get something. It wouldn’t matter if your bergen – your rucksack – got stuck, maybe snagged on one of the fittings on the floor. At sixty-one seconds you would be on your way back to Bastion. At sixty-one seconds, if you’re not off the helicopter you’ll have let everyone down. They were relying on you to play your part, and now you have let them down, your younger brothers and your honourable teachers.
It would not matter if you were standing at the edge of the ramp, just about to jump. At sixty-one seconds, you would have to jump thirty feet. If not fifty, or even a hundred.
So I had to be sure my bhais and gurujis were fully focused and not thinking about the possibility of going back in a box or, worse, with some of their body parts missing. And yes, I could see now that they were ready, as ready as it was possible to be.
Two days back we’d practised on the ground. We’d practised the exit, so everyone knew exactly what to do the moment we touched down, and what to do next. Basically, you had to grab your weapons and a bergen – it didn’t matter whose – and just go for it. Down the ramp, 20-metre dash and hit the deck, take up firing position, observe. Move only when instructed to do so. Then patrol the 800 metres to the safe house, bearing in mind we could be being engaged from the moment the helicopter appeared in the sky.
Satisfied that the bhais were all set, I ran through different scenarios in my head. How precisely I was going to get out, which of the bhais was to go where when we were on the ground, what kit I was going to need to hand. My personal weapon, obviously. But binoculars, map, compass, chinagraph too. And having done this, I began to ask myself the questions all commanders ask themselves on the way into an operation. Did we have enough ammunition? How long would it last if there was a big contact on landing? What about water? Temperatures at this time of year regularly hit 50 degrees celsius. What about food? How many days could we go if we found ourselves cut off and no resupp could get in? Would we be able to buy some food locally? How long before we would need to go looking for it? And what about purification tablets? Yes, I had mine. And yes, I had checked the bhais’ kit: they all had plenty. OK, so what happens if we’re contacted on landing? Or ambushed on our way to the safe house? And what was I going to do if my PRR – my Personal Radio Relay – failed? In answer to my own questions, first I ran over all the IAs in my mind – all the immediate actions – and then all the SOPs – the standard operating procedures – for each of the different possible scenarios. What I would do if separated from the rest of the platoon, for example.
Kit, procedures, drills. There was plenty to think about. No room for being scared, that’s for sure. A bit anxious for the gurujis and bhais under my command, maybe. For myself, no.
I glanced at my watch. Five minutes more, maximum. Five minutes and then sixty seconds.
But I couldn’t stop asking questions. What if one of the vehicles waiting for us was hit? What if the vehicles weren’t waiting at all? What if one of my riflemen got hit? The possibilities were endless. One thing I didn’t have to worry about, though, was the loyalty of my men.
I glanced once more at each of them. There was Gaj, who we all called Gaaz, nineteen years old and the youngest and best of them all. Tough, totally dependable, totally committed, with a big sense of humour. He caught my eye and we both smiled. Then there was Lance Corporal Shree, my section 2 i/c, an experienced soldier and solid as they come. There was Nagen, only a bit older than Gaaz and reliable and solid as a mountain. Then Amrit – a real hard worker and totally straightforward. There was Nani, our WMIK driver. A WMIK (it stands for Weapons Mount Installation Kit) is basically an armoured Land Rover – not the quickest of vehicles at the best of times, and not good at all for surviving an IED (an improvised explosive device, i.e. a remotely triggered mine), but great for getting round the desert in. I never understood how he did it, but luckily Nani seemed to be able to get a WMIK to go 20 per cent faster than anyone else. He was three years senior to me, although junior in rank, so I called him guruji. Next to him was Nabin, wiry and fit as anything, another young rifleman who had joined around the same time as Gaaz. At the end sat Ambika. We called him the Smiley Man – but you wouldn’t want to get in a fight with him.
They were a great bunch, a great team. The younger ones would need some looking after, but, as some officer sahib once said, the Gurkha is a pack animal. We work together and fight together as a team. Everyone helps everyone else: that’s how we operate. We’d be fine just so long as we remembered what we’d been taught.
Suddenly, I felt the helicopter start to descend. Now began the most dangerous part of the flight. It was nerve-racking, I have to admit. We knew the enemy had brought down a Chinook carrying a US Navy SEAL team with an RPG the year before. And what they’d done once they could do again. You’re big and not very fast. Not so difficult if the enemy can get in range. That’s why we flew high to begin with and why, now we were descending, we had to manoeuvre constantly. Banking first left then right, we dropped steeply down. Like this you make it as hard for the enemy as possible.
We were a platoon plus of the 2nd Battalion of the Royal Gurkha Regiment on our way to conduct a Relief in Place of a safe house that 10 Platoon had been holding for the past three weeks. This was an operation in support of the 3 PARA Battlegroup that had been deployed to counter the Taliban insurgency in Helmand province. We were bringing enough supplies with us to last a week. Ten days at a stretch, though we were told we could be relieved within seventy-two hours if all went well, so it was unlikely to be a big deal. Our main job, it had been explained to us, was the battle for hearts and minds – although to judge by 10 Platoon’s experience, there was a good chance we were going to find ourselves in a real battle. We’d heard they had been ambushed while out on patrol and were lucky not to take any casualties.
And to tell you the truth, we were quite looking forward to it. Since late April, we ha
d been providing close defence for Camp Bastion, the British battlefield headquarters in Helmand. During that time, the lads from 48 Engineer Squadron had improved the place a lot, but conditions remained quite tough, as these were still early days. There was no air conditioning at that point, and by day it was hot enough to fry an egg in a mess tin that had been left out in the sun. Then there was the fine powder of the desert dust. Every time you moved, a little cloud of it would form. When you went on patrol you’d come back caked in it. Dust, dust everywhere. Dust in your eyes, dust in your ears, and dust under your foreskin if you weren’t careful. But apart from everyone’s personal battle with the elements, there hadn’t been much to do. Day patrols, night patrols, ambush patrols, vehicle checkpoints, that sort of thing. We’d seen a few cars blown up, but we hadn’t come under fire ourselves, so we were keen to see a bit of action. After all, that’s what we’d joined up for.
As we swooped lower, time seemed to slow down. It goes like that when you’re pumped up. It’s strange, though. I hardly even knew I was feeling a bit queasy from all the manoeuvring of the chopper, but thinking back, I realise I was. It’s different what you notice depending on your state of mind. You might think that when time seems to move more slowly you’d notice everything around you. It’s not like that, I found. I wasn’t focused on myself at all, but entirely alert to what the next few minutes would bring.
There was a sudden change of engine note.
‘GOGGLES!’ I shouted, and looked round to make sure everyone had them pulled down.
This was it! The door was already open. I began to look for the ground. But it was hopeless. All you could see was the swirling dust. Dust and more damned dust, billowing up all around us, stirred into angry life by the rotor blades.
As soon as we felt the Chinook touching down, the bhais nearest the exit got moving. In a hurry, but not in a panic. Out they went. Our bergens weighed 30 kilos each and we had another 15 kilos strapped to our bodies – ammunition, water, rations, mess tin, field dressings. Weapons were on top of that. In my own case, I had my SA80 personal weapon plus UGL grenade launcher, radio, binos, night-vision sight, tactical aide memoire. In all, probably 50 kilos. Some of the bhais and gurujis had still more than that: between us we were carrying a section GPMG (7.62 calibre General Purpose Machine Gun), an LSW (the bipod-mounted version of the SA80 5.65 calibre rifle), a 51 mm mortar and two ILAWs (Interim Light Anti-Tank Weapon) – not to mention our kukris.
No Gurkha is ever without his kukri.
But you don’t register the weight in a situation like this. You just pick it up and run.
As we heaved our gear out of the chopper, I hardly noticed the platoon we were relieving standing ready to board as soon as we were clear. I was focused entirely on the job in hand and launched myself into the swirling dust cloud, mouth tight shut. Thank God for those goggles.
We fanned out, just as we had practised. My section was out first and we were to go left. Fifteen, twenty paces then down. Already the Chinook was getting airborne again, and the dust storm intensified so we were running blind. It was like a blizzard in the mountains, only worse, because when it got into your mouth and nose and ears, it didn’t dissolve like snow does. I threw myself down and waited.
No sooner had the sound of the heli started to fade than I heard machine-gun fire.
Aayo! We were being engaged.
But where from?
First you hear the TAK TAK TAK of the rounds as they fly past, then the TUM TUM TUM of the report.
‘CONTACT WAIT OUT!’ I screamed into the PRR.
If you hear the rounds in the air before you hear the sound of them being fired, you can be fairly certain they’re being fired at you.
TAK TAK TAK TAK TAK. TUM TUM TUM TUM TUM.
Aare jatha! But where was it coming from?
‘Anybody see anything?’ I shouted.
‘Kahi pani chaina! Can’t see anything at all,’ someone yelled.
‘Can I fire?’ someone else shouted.
‘Not until you can see something definite!’ I shouted back.
‘Zero, this is Two One Charlie.’ I steadied my voice as I spoke into the PRR. ‘Contact! Small-arms fire. Position unknown. Looking.’
‘Zero, roger. We’re in contact too. Keep observing.’
Major Rex’s voice was calm, though I could hear shouts coming from his position.
The enemy couldn’t see anything either of course, because the dust hadn’t settled yet. But they knew we were in there somewhere and the rounds kept coming.
Slowly the air started to clear. As it did so, the fire intensified. But it was still completely impossible to work out where the enemy position was. This was terrible. My heart was raging in my chest. Every so often I was popping my head up and looking round 360 degrees. But they were too well concealed. The only clue was the sound of the rounds flying towards us.
And it was at this moment that I learned the hardest thing in any combat situation. The hardest thing is to know where you are being engaged from. It’s the hardest thing, and also the most frustrating. Because if you can’t see the enemy, you can’t engage him. It’s no good just shooting back blindly. You waste ammunition and have a big chance of blue on blue contact. And yet your whole body, your whole mind, is screaming at you to hit back. You want to see the jatha haru. You want to take the fight to them. You want to kill them.
Here I should say that Gurkhas do not like swearing too much, and when we do, it is a matter of embarrassment. Also, the words will seem strange to English readers – jatha, which we use when a British squaddie might say ‘fu**ers’, actually means ‘pubic hair’, which, for us, is not so rude.
But you can’t hit back at the jatha because you don’t know where they are.
So I was lying there in the prone position, using my bergen for cover, trying hard to work out where the fire was coming from – looking for any clue. The sight of tracer. Muzzle flash. Smoke from a barrel. Movement. Any clue at all. I suppose that if I’d been frightened, I’d have felt it then. But I didn’t feel any fear. Just excitement. Real excitement. This was my first-ever contact and I desperately wanted to fight, to take them on. So all I was thinking was: Where are they? Who are they? What are they wearing? What kind of weapons do they have?
I was just totally focused on returning fire.
At the same time, I was shouting to the bhais and gurujis.
‘Keep down! OBSERVE! … Use your bergen for cover! … Hold fire unless you get a PID [positive identification].’
I could feel the bhais’ frustration. Just like me, they were desperate to hit back. They too were coiled like springs. But they remembered their discipline and there was no panic. Of course not. We are Gurkhas. This is what we are trained for. This is what we are bred to do.
After two or three minutes of enforced inaction, I became aware of answering fire coming from another position, up on the high ground nearby. That must be ANP Hill. It was a mound about 150 metres high that we’d been briefed beforehand was held by ISAF – friendly forces – who were to provide fire support for us. So that was a big plus, but I still couldn’t see what they were firing at. You might think that you’d be able to see their tracer, but because it was daytime, that was impossible. It’s extremely difficult to see tracer by day unless you’re looking straight at it. And if you’re looking straight at it, obviously you need to get your head down, because it’s you it’s aimed at.
As I lay there, I took out my map to orientate myself. I was expecting orders any moment, but in the meantime I would try to get a grip on our surroundings. The other section was no more than 30 or 40 metres distant, but they were partially out of sight, as there was some dead ground in-between our positions. Up ahead, as expected, there were the two WMIKs, not more than 20 metres away, engines running. They were there to transport the gear. Inside, they had a crew of just two, the driver and a commander. That meant there was no gunner to fire the top cover. Those bhais and gurujis were in the Chinook on their way bac
k to Bastion.
There was also a quad bike with a trailer. I could see its driver was on the ground taking cover next to it.
I made a quick appreciation. If we could get someone up onto the nearest WMIK, he could get a much better view and also make use of its .50-cal heavy machine gun. The only problem with this was that he would be very vulnerable, as there was no protection.
I shouted to my men.
‘Guruji haru! Bhai haru! Over here! On me now!’
I got up, grabbed my bergen and made a dash for the vehicle and the bhais and gurujis followed. They yelled at me as we ran.
‘Where are they? Where are they?’
‘Can you see them, guruji?’
‘Can we fire, guruji?’
‘Shall I set up the jimpy now, guruji?’
They were all pumped up and aching to return fire, but still I had to tell them no.
Instead I made them take cover either side of the vehicle with me while I put one man on top cover.
‘Gaaz,’ I said. ‘Get up there and take control of that Browning.’
‘Yes, guruji.’
I felt really nervous watching him climb onto the vehicle. If he was hit, it would be my fault, but I felt I had to take the risk. I told him he wasn’t to fire until I gave him the order. It was vital we followed the Rules of Engagement. Besides, the last thing I wanted was blue on blue contact. The .50-cal is a serious weapon.
‘And Nagen, I want you to get the ILAW out and make ready.’
He nodded acknowledgement.
‘Yes, guruji.’
If we could only spot the enemy position I’d get Nagen to drop a round on it. Gaaz could take care of any runners.
Meanwhile, the enemy fire was still coming at us.
TAK TAK TAK TAK TAK TAK. TUM TUM TUM TUM TUM TUM.
It seemed like there were at least two separate weapons to judge by the weight of fire, but for now there was nothing we could do.
I pulled out my map again. With ANP Hill on our right, Now Zad town and the safe house we were to occupy were directly ahead of us. It was just as I expected. The pilot had landed spot on. The only thing that hadn’t gone quite according to plan was the fact that he had deposited us bang on top of a hornets’ nest. Right now it looked like we were going to have to fight every step of the 800 metres between the HLS and our objective.
Gurkha: Better to Die than Live a Coward: My Life in the Gurkhas Page 3