I felt a stab of emotion. I didn’t mind that he thought I was American, but this dude thought I could work miracles. Primary survey now in the bag, I started on the secondary survey. Looking up, I saw the terp had tears welling in his eyes too. The room was charged with desperation and heartache.
Bad drills. Don’t get involved, Tezz. Remain objective.
This job was getting to me. I was sweating like a slab of Semtex trying to figure out how I was going to help them. I tried to summon my superhuman powers of detachment but it was too late; I was already emotionally invested. I silently pleaded to chance, or karma, or whatever higher power was out there in the universe to help this beautiful couple. All I needed was a sign or symptom to tell me that her illness was acute, and something that I could deal with. Although I don’t believe in God, or any other deity for that matter, I was almost praying that she had appendicitis so that I could do something to help her.
After thirty minutes or so, having tried every dirty little trick I’d ever learnt, I conceded that there was nothing I could do. My best guess was that she had some sort of advanced gastrointestinal cancer. But without possessing a doctorate in oncology and carrying a portable radiology department on my back, I’d exhausted every available avenue.
Nevertheless, I gave her some seriously kick-ass pain medication – not the weak stuff that I gave to everyone else; the good shit – and gave the old man twenty bucks to get his wife to the American surgical team asap, where there probably wasn’t much they could do either. He grabbed my hand in both of his and shook it gratefully, letting the money drop to the floor. Twenty dollars is worth two months’ pay in Afghanistan. ‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ he beamed, tears leaking from his eyes.
Even though I was trying to put on a brave front, the look on my face betrayed me. As soon as the old man’s gaze met mine, he knew his wife was doomed. But he continued to shake my hand genuinely anyway.
I felt like pond scum. This poor bloke was shaking my hand like I’d just granted his wife immortality, but I’d done nothing. No matter how bad I wanted to change the outcome, there was nothing I could do to give this Afghan love story a happier ending. I fought back the lump of emotion rising in my throat.
I stepped out into the family’s courtyard, stifling sun rendering me temporarily blind.
‘Jeez, you were in there a long time, Tezz. How’d you go?’ the security team leader asked.
‘Ah, she’s fucked, brother,’ I said as we slowly patrolled back to the awaiting humanitarian queue.
‘Ah well. You do what you can, mate. On to the next one,’ he said.
He was right. I’d let this house call get under my skin. I needed to forget about it and just move on. There were still dozens of chronically malnourished infants that I couldn’t save waiting patiently in line for me to do nothing.
A day later, the op was drawing to a close, so we saddled up to ride back to base while the Dutch engineers offered construction leftovers from the mosque rebuild to the villagers. Masses of villagers picked through the scraps like vultures on a carcass, when social order suddenly disintegrated. Multiple fights broke out. One bloke picked up a piece of two-by-four and swung it violently at a dude who was vying for another piece of wood. Fisticuffs erupted as the peaceful scene nearly degraded into a soccer riot. Dozens of soldiers raced in to quell the fracas, breaking up the fights and extinguishing spot fires before they intensified. When relative peace was restored, a tribal elder approached our terp, angrily blaming us for the incident. The elder demanded that we pony up cash or provide more building materials so they could be shared out evenly among the villagers.
This is an example of how easy it was for ‘hearts and minds’ missions to backfire in Afghanistan. I was beginning to understand the degree of difficulty in restoring peace and order to this region.
The issue was diplomatically smoothed over, and we started the long journey back to base. But we still had a quick stop to make on the way out of the region. A few clicks down the road, the convoy came to an abrupt halt at the doorstep of the local warlord’s armoured fortress. The hierarchy dismounted and entered the compound. They were in no mood for a welcoming shura this time. Within twenty minutes, we were back on the road. The warlord had been read the riot act and been assured in no uncertain terms that we’d be back if he didn’t pull his head in. I don’t think there were any more problems in the area after that.
8
GETTING FROSTY
Back in the relative safety of the Tarin Kot base, life continued on as normal, marking a lull between the battle ops. In terms of medical logistics, there was always paperwork and bureaucracy to handle. Annual health check-ups, monthly kit inspections and minor illnesses typically consumed a few hours of the day. But there was still plenty of free time. The daily ritual consisted of semi-rigid meal timings, ample PT opportunities, night-time poker tournaments and the occasional visit to the Dutch general store to spend our hard-earned, tax-free dollars.
Paul, the commando medic, earned the nickname of ‘Tajiman’ – which loosely translated to ‘the boss man’ in Pashtun – because his dark olive skin and bushy black beard made him look like an Afghan. Locals would often approach Paul, thinking that he was the terp, but he was as Aussie as they come. Aside from his uncanny ability to blend in with the locals, he had another unique skill set: he was an unbelievable artist.
Using nothing more than a plain white bedsheet and children’s crayons, Paul got to work on a massive painting that we hung in the RAP. The painting was of a Kilo killing the Grim Reaper with a caduceus – the long, snake-wrapped staff that represents the Medical Corps. As the trip wore on, Paul’s painting became more intricate and detailed, incorporating obscure details of funny events that were unique to our deployment. His artistic genius was a very surreal thing that I certainly hadn’t expected to find in my Afghan experience. So many hours were spent staring at his mural, a welcome break from the dull grey and brown tones of the scenery in the region.
Paul’s artistry was symbolic of the uber-relaxed and friendly atmosphere around the camp. Even the strict military grooming standards, which usually required regular haircuts and daily facial shaving, loosened. As is common for Special Forces trips, a hair-growing competition emerged. My mop of hair had been going great guns for several months, but my facial hair was another story. The stubble grew thick and quick around my bum chin, but was patchy and sparse everywhere else. Some blokes were naturally blessed with the gift of the growth – but the widening density differential of the hair adorning my face looked more and more ridiculous as the months wore on.
While my clumps of facial hair made me look like Oscar the Grouch after a fight with a lawnmower, I was still required to behave all professional during practice-range shoots. Here, the lads would take aim at the different blown-out vehicles and range-markers dotting the rolling hills of one particular section of the outer perimeter fence with any one of twenty different types of weapon systems. On one particular range shoot, a lone silhouette was seen traversing the range about one and a half kilometres away. We immediately stopped the shoot. This guy had somehow bypassed all the fencing, signage and sentries that prohibited entry into the live-fire area. We tried everything we could to flag the trespasser’s attention, but nothing worked. He was in serious danger – not from the range shoot but from the unexploded bombs lying everywhere.
As the silhouette crossed the horizon, a small puff of dust erupted at his feet. He must have kicked an unexploded 40-millimetre grenade! As we watched from the range firing point, the silhouette turned back in the direction he’d come – visibly limping. He was most likely a local who wanted to pick up unexploded bombs to sell back to the highest bidder (usually the Taliban), but he’d obviously run into serious dramas.
Sure enough, a bloke with massive lower-leg trauma presented to the American FSB the following day but wouldn’t elaborate on how he sustained the wounds. He was undoubtedly our mystery shadow man.
In the da
ys after the Bomb Bandit incident, a new mission profile unfolded. This was to be a long one, venturing deep into the heart of the Uruzgan province. While previous ops had seen the SAS and commandos share the workload together, this op saw them go their separate ways to achieve different objectives. My role in the new op was different again. I was playing the position of left-right-out. Given that this was my first overseas deployment, and I hadn’t spent any significant time with the SAS, I was left to do the base duties. The commando medical team enjoyed a full complement of personnel, so they didn’t need my help on this one either.
I was a bit demoralised on the one hand, but can’t say that I was surprised on the other. As a black hat, it takes a gargantuan amount of time and spotless performance to earn a juicy trip with the SAS, especially on ops. My torch fuck-up hadn’t exactly strengthened my case either. Oh well, I’d lump it. I was doomed to the drudgery of a medic’s base responsibilities.
My hell was short-lived. A few days after the lads had left the base, a frenetic call came from the front line. The most senior commando medic had been taken out, and was being evacuated by chopper back to base. Information was sketchy.
I needed to collect all my shit in one sock and rush down to the outgoing medevac helicopter inside of ten minutes. The drive to the chopper took at least five. I was to be the commando medic’s replacement, entering the fray on the outgoing chopper that was going to bring him home on the flipside.
Tropical Cyclone Tezz struck again. Shit was flying everywhere in my rush to meet the tight deadline. I managed to catch the chopper moments before it was turning and burning to collect the casualty. I dumped all my gear inside the Black Hawk and strapped it in. The chopper took off, rising vertically and quickly dipping its nose to the north. In a matter of minutes, we were negotiating a tight, enclosed, mountainous valley when a shrill alarm sounded. We’d either been locked on to by a nasty weapon somewhere in the mountain ranges, or it was a false alarm. I heard the mechanical movement of a nearby compartment as the decoy chaff was released to disorient incoming missiles, but none were fired at the chopper. This was a very nerve-racking way to accrue Frequent Flyer points.
Fifteen minutes later, we’d reached the commando’s location, landing safely within its defensive posture. I grabbed my kit and raced out the door, only to see the senior commando medic being loaded in. His head was wrapped in gauze like a mummy and he had two bloody palm prints painted across his chest.
What the fuck am I walking into?
Not seconds after the chopper had taken off, the commando mortar section unleashed the fury on a nearby mountain range. They were engaging a ‘spotter’ target, who was coordinating Taliban attacks on our group. I scrambled to try to get my bearings in this hostile environment.
‘What happened?’ I asked Paul, the medical artist.
‘Fucking Charlie, man. He fell off the back step of the Bushmaster and hit his head hard on the ground,’ Paul explained.
‘What? No Talib fire or anything – he just brained himself?’ I asked, still panting.
‘Yeah, dude,’ Paul said, amused at my unrequired adrenaline surge. ‘What did you think was going on?’
Shitness.
I opened a ration pack and made dinner, relaxing back against a Bushmaster tyre as my meal cooked. We watched the fireworks unfold high up the mountainside. Two spotters dead. I was glad to get back in the game. And I was starving.
Over the next few days, we rolled around the sun-baked hillside. Nothing overly exciting happened. But then as we rolled onto the dasht (which loosely translates to the desert and hillsides) overlooking a village, the temperature of the village suddenly dropped to Arctic conditions. There were no women or children running about the place, so we knew shit was about to get hectic. In the fading sunlight of a warm spring night, our convoy got lit up.
The Taliban arced up from the mountainside and from the obscured green belt to our left. After a quick exchange, lasting no more than a few minutes, we re-established dominance in the area.
With sunlight fading, we decided that this would be a prime spot to post up for the night. My group was situated at various spots around the town, but the other commando group was stationed further along the dasht, a few hundred metres away. The night passed without trouble, so we assumed the area was pretty clear. Although there were a few signs of Taliban activity around us, there was nothing to suggest we should be any more on edge than we already were.
As the morning sun rose behind the distant mountains, the dasht commando group went about their daily routine. Todd, a well-liked and respected commando, ventured outside the defensive position for an early-morning dump. Just as his business was concluding, a volley of fire erupted from a nearby mountain range. Todd was struck by a 7.62 round that zipped through his thigh and exited through his buttock.
This sparked an all-out gunfight. The exchange of fire was intense. The commandos laid down some serious hurt with their superior weapon systems against the Talibs, who knew the terrain all too well. We were positioned back from the contact by 300 metres, watching the drama unfold. We wanted to jump in, but we were sitting in a more strategically important position in the context of this fight, so we had to watch from the sidelines.
Ten minutes later, a Bushmaster broke away from the group in contact and made a beeline towards us. We quickly prepped the medical vehicle. A CASEVAC – casualty evacuation – chopper was already on its way. We unloaded the injured Todd on a stretcher and laid him on the ground. All the fundamentals were already taken care of: his wounds weren’t leaking, he had an IV in situ, and his vital signs were stable. Jim, the commando frontline medic, had done a shit-hot job, under intense enemy fire – there wasn’t much left for us to do.
As Todd was plonked on the ground, he looked up at me. ‘Tezz! What are you doing here, brother?’ he asked, now showing visible signs of shock as his shaking, blood-soaked hand shook mine. We’d spent a lot of time competing in nightly poker competitions back at base before this op.
‘I knew your ass would need my help, brother!’ I replied. ‘Don’t you worry about it, though. You’re in good shape – you’re axing it, homie.’ I was confident that he’d be sweet.
Double-checking everything, we rolled Todd onto his side, only to find that blood was falling out of his reverse-side wound (as opposed to dripping or spurting), so we quickly bandaged over it and threw in a second IV for good practice’s sake. The CASEVAC chopper was close so we prepped him for transit.
A cyclone of sand and dust swirled everywhere as the CASEVAC chopper touched down. The medical team rushed Todd forwards on a stretcher, quickly handing over everything we knew to the American chopper medic. The chopper lifted off and disappeared into the distance, transporting Todd back to civilisation. The mood was sombre, and the atmosphere eerily quiet after Todd’s departure, with the commandos having regained dominance of the area.
Over the next few days, we received updates on Todd’s status: he was seriously hurt, but nailing his recovery in true Todd style. But we needed to maintain the rage and keep ticking off mission objectives.
Most days outside the wire were characterised by ninety-five per cent boredom and five per cent pure adrenaline. The daily odd angry bullet, mortar or rocket-propelled grenade attack was usually enough to remind me that I was not in a friendly environment. Some kind of shit was invariably going down range, most days.
We happened across a highly protected local Afghan doctor’s surgery. The dude had glass bottles cemented into the top of his mud-brick fence, which were smashed into a makeshift style of razor wire. This was the most dangerous doctor’s surgery on the planet.
The good doctor inside the compound was in fear of his life. The Taliban were notorious for brutally torturing and killing any scholar with a tertiary education, so this bloke desperately needed our help. We set up shop in his clinic to reduce his workload, and sick locals were quick to line up around the corner once they heard we were there. The majority of patients didn�
�t have much to write home about – from the Afghan perspective. But if the same ailments were to manifest back home in Australia, beware the incoming national shit-storm! These hardy Afghan kids were tough as nails. Gaping wounds, crippling illnesses, broken limbs – I honestly never saw an Afghan kid cry.
After a few hours of kicking sand in Disease’s face, and stealing Injury’s lunch money, a middle-aged bloke burst through the doctor’s door. His dad was waiting outside in a van, unable to walk into the surgery. Another medic and I went to investigate. We were incredibly suspicious about the van, which could’ve been loaded with suicide explosives, but we were intrigued nonetheless. We stepped into the vehicle as this putrid stench molested our nostrils. It smelt like burnt ball-sack with an overwhelming odour of tropical, rotting dick cheese. I opened a window to dry-retch, before recovering my composure and pulling a bandana over my nose to mask the evil odour.
An elderly chap was sprawled out across the back seat of the van, naked from the waist down. He had a gruesome wound running the length of his thigh, which seemed to be infected with a bacterial mutation. The son explained that his dad was Taliban – not a modern Talib but an old-school hard-ass who fought against the Soviet Union; a Mujahid. The old Talib boys (mostly) had no affiliation to the new regime that was currently fighting against the West.
This war had just become a little more complicated for me:
Okay, we’re fighting the Taliban but there are people who fight with the Taliban who aren’t Taliban. Also there are some factions who want to kill us, but they’re not Taliban, and aren’t aligned with the Taliban. Plus, there are dudes who are Taliban, but they’re not the type of Taliban we’re fighting. Clear as mud.
Bad Medicine Page 9