Now Zad is the name of both a town and its surrounding district. Situated in Helmand province, the population was around ten thousand, we’d been told, and that looked about right, judging by what I could see of it in the near distance.
Between the HLS and the town itself, there were quite a few buildings lying on our route, and I wondered if the enemy was engaging us from inside one of these. But then, looking towards them and up to ANP Hill, although it was impossible to be sure, I began to get the idea that the section occupying ANP Hill was firing down not at the buildings themselves but onto the open ground between them and the high ground. That would mean the enemy position was at something like two o’clock of our route to the police compound.
So now I was using the sight on my rifle to try to see if the enemy could have dug a trench somewhere, and I told Gaaz up on the WMIK to do the same.
‘Reference buildings directly ahead. Go right. Open ground. Can you see anything? Anything at all?’ I shouted up to him.
The .50-cal’s sight is no better than the sight on an SA80, but he had a better view because he was higher up.
‘Nothing, guruji. Can’t see a thing. But can I shoot? Just a few rounds, guruji? To show them we mean business.’
It was massively tempting to say yes. It’s always tempting to lash out when you’re under fire. It must have been ten minutes since we’d landed now and the enemy was continuing to put up a non-stop hail of bullets. It was lucky no one had been hit. But I knew that if Gaaz opened up with the .50-cal, we’d lose all possibility of picking up clues. We’d also be wasting ammo we might need later.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not until we’re sure.’
I was gathering my thoughts to send a sitrep, a situation report, to Rex sahib, the OC, when suddenly it dawned on me that it had all gone quiet. The gunfire had stopped. Why? I didn’t know. Maybe they got hit by fire from ISAF up on ANP Hill. Maybe they were relocating. Maybe they thought they’d done all they could for now, and if they stayed longer they would be putting themselves in danger.
Well, they had that bit right. As soon as we’d got onto them, the .50-cal and the ILAW between them would have wiped out just about any kind of defensive position short of a nuclear bunker. That or the mud-brick wall of some of the larger Afghan houses.
So now the question was, were they going to engage us from somewhere else? We waited, still looking, everyone trying desperately to see any movement there might be. Then after a few moments of quiet, together with Corporal Ramesh the acting platoon sergeant, and Corporal Santos, the other section commander, I received the order over the radio to RV (rendezvous) with the platoon commander, Lieutenant Mathers. He’d moved up so that he was only about 30 metres away from my position. Leaving my kit where it was, I made my way over, moving tactically. Running a few steps, I threw myself down, observed, crawled, got up, ran, and dropped down again in a series of short bursts to cover the distance. There was no question of just heading over, as there was no cover anywhere. You had to hug the ground as much as possible.
Mathers sahib gave us a QBO, a Quick Battle Order. We needed to be ready to move on his signal, so we should get our bergens on the vehicles right away and prepare to patrol our way in: full fighting patrol, that is. That meant tactical movement the whole way, with the vehicles providing top cover.
I made my way back to my section, gave them their orders and we threw our kit into the back of the vehicles. The trouble was, there wasn’t room for all of it. Maybe if we took it all off and repacked it more carefully, but there wasn’t time for that. We were too good a target to be standing up and messing about with kit. We got a couple more bergens onto the trailer behind the quad bike, though that still left two of the bhais carrying theirs, which wasn’t ideal for them. But at least their stuff could give them some protection if we came under fire again.
On hearing the command to move, I signalled to the bhais and gurujis that we should start patrolling, four to the left, three to the right of the vehicle, Gaaz still on top, manning the .50-cal. The other section spread out round the other WMIK, with the command group and the quad bike slightly behind.
Although the firing had stopped, after an arrival like that you’re still on maximum alert. You’re looking out all the time for the smallest sign of the enemy. More than anything else, you want to hit the jatha back.
‘Make sure you still do a three-sixty lookout,’ I told the bhais, not that it was necessary – they were already doing so, just as they’d been trained. But command and control in a battle situation is often as much about reassurance as it is about coming up with brilliant ideas. You need to reassure the bhais and gurujis under your command that you are in charge of the situation – even when you’re not.
Slowly but steadily, we made our way towards the town, ready to drop down at the first sign of trouble. There was still no cover whatsoever. The ground was completely flat, with nothing bigger than a few rocks strewn here and there. But mostly it was just compacted sand. It was like this all round, except that far up ahead, on the other side of the town, there were mountains. Mountains to remind us of home.
As we approached the outskirts of Now Zad, we continued to move slowly and cautiously. I fully expected to be engaged again – as did the OC, who kept reminding us over the radio that the enemy were out there and it was only a matter of time.
There began to be a few buildings skirting the road, and it was these I was watching, watching. This was a point of serious risk of ambush. But all was quiet. There was just the sound of our vehicles and, in the distance, the occasional hooting of a car horn, or the tinny toot of a motorbike’s. As we continued, the number of buildings to the left and right of us increased, and now we were being channelled up a narrow alleyway between houses. These were low, mud-brick and mostly with open doors and windowless.
Aayo! This was serious grenade territory. There could be enemy inside ready just to lob one out at us as we went past. In a built-up area, that’s always going to be a serious worry. I told the bhais to be extra careful, to scan every door, every window and every compound we passed.
‘If you see anything suspicious, immediate action is get down and cover with your weapon.’
Altogether, it took maybe about half an hour to cover the 800 metres of ground from where we’d first been engaged to our present position. But now that we were getting inside the town proper, we couldn’t be far from our objective. I looked up and suddenly saw a sangar position on top of a wall. This must be it! We’d been told the police station was set in a compound about 200 metres square with sangars in each corner. As we came up to it, I saw the nearest one was occupied by two British soldiers providing cover. Signallers, both.
We reached a T-junction and turned left along the perimeter wall. Up ahead, I could see the main street running through the town, a road in quite a good state. There were one or two vehicles and a lot of people moving along it, together with loads of small motorbikes weaving in and out of the crowds. I noticed there were a lot of shops, all still open with people going in and out, buying and selling. I say people – I mean men and boys mostly. Few women, and those women that were there walked a few steps behind their male relatives. As for the shops themselves, they were a bit like the shops we have back in Nepal. A single room with a roll-down metal door. There was a display at the front of fruit and vegetables or whatever it was the shop sold, and the shopkeeper sitting there, talking with passers-by or smoking. Strangely, they didn’t react much to the sight of us and just shot a few sly glances in our direction. But there were some children in the street too, kicking a plastic ball around. As we came towards them, they stopped their game and stared at us like we’d landed from the moon.
It was like two different worlds, side by side. For them, normal life. For us, the threat of enemy action at any moment.
But here we were now. This had to be the main entrance – a flimsy metal gate pushed open and a compound inside. This was to be our home for the next few days – or maybe for ever,
if it was here we were going to die.
4
The DC
We walked up to the gate and the vehicles drove inside and parked, with us following. We’d got there with no further engagement after that first attack, but we still all felt very suspicious as we unloaded our kit and put our bergens in a pile.
So this was Now Zad’s police station. It didn’t look like any police station I’d seen before, just an ordinary Afghan compound with a jumble of buildings, most of them built up against the outer walls. I looked round and took stock. Besides ourselves, there must have been twenty or so people already in the compound. Of these, there were maybe ten British soldiers. The rest were Afghans. We’d been told there was a contingent of ANP – Afghan National Police – and some local police, but there was no way to tell the difference. None of them was wearing anything in the way of uniform. They all looked like ordinary civilians. But we didn’t take a lot of notice of these people at first, although they were staring at us and were obviously excited about our arrival.
Our first priority was rehydration. It must have been at least 50 degrees and we all took out our water bottles while the OC spoke to the two police chiefs through the local interpreter who came forward now, the torjeman as we called him.
As we quenched our thirst, I looked more closely at the position. We’d been bumped on arrival in the HLS, and there was nothing to say we weren’t going to be attacked again at any moment. So the first thing you do in a situation like this is make an appreciation. What are the weak points? Where are you going to take cover if you come under fire? Who is going to go where? One thing that stood out at once was that this was a very large compound for just a platoon to defend, even for a platoon plus. A compound 200 metres square has got a lot of wall round it. The distance between the sangar positions meant that you would only just be heard at the far end of the compound if you shouted at the top of your voice. We were going to depend heavily on our radios and on the field telephone.
Having glanced round, I started to tell the riflemen what we would do in the event of attack. But every time I tried to say something, some of the local militiamen would come up and interrupt. Just who were these people? I wondered. Which were ANP and which were local police? And could we trust them? The bhais looked at them equally suspiciously. Several came forward to shake hands.
‘Assalam-u-alaikum. Assalam-u-alaikum,’ they said. ‘How are you, how are you?’
Because Urdu is close to the Hindi language, which I speak OK, I could understand them quite a bit, and we exchanged a few words.
‘Wa’alaikum assalam,’ I replied. ‘Very well thanks.’ This surprised them. I suppose they hadn’t met many foreign soldiers, let alone soldiers who spoke to them in a language they could understand. But I could also see they weren’t all showing the same enthusiasm about our arrival. Either that or some were just very shy.
At this point, the British NCO who had stayed behind to hand over the position came over to show the platoon sergeant Corporal Ramesh and the two section leaders – myself and Corporal Santos – round the compound. On close inspection, we saw that it was in a shocking state. Really sarai pohor – full of dirt and rubbish, with bits of paper and discarded tins and empty plastic bottles just thrown on the floor without any care. I was a bit surprised that 10 Platoon hadn’t cleared the place up more. This suggested they’d been under a lot of pressure, as normally you’d expect them to have left the place tidy. As it turned out, we had a similar situation on handover – for the same reason.
Altogether there were maybe twelve or fifteen buildings: a central one with a dome on top like a mosque, which was something like eight metres square, while the remainder were built up in different places against the perimeter wall. These buildings were mostly windowless with small rooms, all full of sand and rubbish and badly in need of cleaning out. Several were obviously occupied by the ANP and their local counterparts, but even these were not well kept. In all, the only thing in a good state of repair was the perimeter wall. That and two obviously new portable cabins painted white and blue. But these were too flimsy to survive a direct hit and, stuck out in the middle of the compound, too vulnerable to be any use to us, so after a quick look in through the windows we ignored them.
But as I say, the perimeter wall looked to be in a good state. This was encouraging, because when they are intact about the only thing that can get through them is a Hellfire missile fired from an Apache helicopter. Against small arms and even RPGs, they are completely secure. But that was the only positive thing about the place. Compared with any other police station I’d ever seen, it was a real dump.
But here was one surprise. I noticed on the southern side of the central block that there was a small area, no more than six metres by six, of beautiful garden. There was grass and flowers, mainly red and white, growing in neatly laid beds. It was obviously well looked after – in stark contrast to the rest of the compound. There were even some small trees.
The main points of interest, though, were the sangars. These were small fortified positions, one in each corner plus two extra ones halfway along the longest walls. Sangar 1 was in the north-western corner, Sangar 2 in the south-eastern, Sangar 3 in the north-eastern corner and Sangar 4 in the south-western. Sangars 1 and 3 were therefore the ones that looked down onto the main, metal, road and faced the shops that stood on the other side of it. It was also these that were the most vulnerable to engagement from close quarters. There were also two other temporary sangar positions – not fully protected, that is – about midway along the eastern and western perimeter walls. These were designated sangars number 5 and 6 respectively.
One problem struck me at once. The only way up to these positions was by climbing onto the roof of the buildings they were built on top of, and the only way to do this was by using outside steps. This meant you’d be exposed going in and out. We’d need to do something about that – screen them with some hessian or something. Otherwise a sniper could just sit outside and take a pop every time the sangar duties changed.
The NCO showing us round explained that they’d been contacted – that’s to say shot at – several times in the past week.
‘It’s practically impossible to know where they’re hitting you from,’ he explained as he pointed out the various places they’d identified as probable fire positions.
That sounded familiar. It clearly wasn’t going to be any easier up here to identify where the enemy was than it had been out in the open.
To make matters worse, I saw straight away that some of the buildings outside the compound were on two storeys. As the compound wall was not more than 4 metres high, that gave a big advantage to any enemy occupying the upper rooms of these places. They would be looking down on us.
Our guide, a tough-looking guy, not very tall and with a week’s beard growth, also pointed out where the danger zones were along the alleyways. There were lots of them. This was all useful information, but what struck me immediately was how narrow the arcs of fire were. If you swung your weapon too far in any direction, there was going to be serious danger of blue on blue contact. I made a mental note that we would need to put up marker posts for day operations and Cyalume infrared markers each night.
After our tour of the compound, we headed back to the central building, where we found the rest of the platoon now completely surrounded by Afghans. Even the ones who had been hanging back before had obviously lost their shyness. Although 10 Platoon had been here before us, they all wanted to know where we came from. Were we Chinese? Japanese?
‘Nepalese? Where is Nepal?’
The questioning was friendly, but while it was going on I noticed that some of the Afghans still hung back a bit, not really joining in but – it looked to me – sizing us up.
There wasn’t time to investigate this suspicion any further, because now a platoon O-group (an orders group) was called inside the central building which Rex sahib, the Company Commander who was in overall charge, had already decided would be pl
atoon HQ. The word sahib, by the way, is a term of endearment. Although it’s an old-fashioned word, not much in use in everyday Gorkhali, it’s what you would use to a member of your family – your grandfather, perhaps. It’s a term of respect, but not a cringing word. It implies closeness. The OC began by reminding us that the main purpose of Op Herrick 4 was to win hearts and minds. We had to show the local people we were on their side. It would weaken the appeal of the Taliban if we could convince the locals that they had our support. He then went on to say that for now, the top priority was the question of how we were going to make the compound secure, given we were so few.
‘As you know, Ten Platoon had a major contact while out on patrol last week. And as we saw ourselves, not everybody here welcomes us. It’s vital we don’t take any chances.’
He went on to explain that Company Tactical Headquarters – that’s to say himself, the 2 i/c Lieutenant Mathers, the platoon sergeant and an orderly – would occupy the central building along with the J Tac (the tactical air controller), the doctor and his orderly. Everyone else would have to help build up the positions with more sandbags.
‘It’s going to be hard work in this heat, I’m afraid. But all the intelligence we’re getting tells us there’s a lot of enemy in the area. We need to make sure we can defend ourselves properly.’
We all looked at each other, nodding.
The OC’s other big concern was ANP Hill.
‘I’ve already asked for another section to reinforce it,’ the OC continued. ‘Probably it will be from your platoon, Kailash.’
‘Hasur, sahib,’ I replied. ‘Yes sir.’
Gurkha: Better to Die than Live a Coward: My Life in the Gurkhas Page 4