by Ed Macy
‘Plan: on arrival the Apaches are to assess the target and LSs. If they think the LSs are hot-under imminent threat or under fire-they will give the codeword “boiling” to the Chinooks. If the LSs are cold-no threat and safe to land-they will give the codeword “freezing”.’
‘If the Apaches are in contact when the Chinooks arrive the Apache crews will give the codeword “sausage” followed by either One, Two, Three or Four, depending upon which sector they are engaging into. The Chinooks will then be able to adjust their flight profile and route, choosing the best sector to approach and depart without the fear of flying into the Apaches’ fire.’
‘Let’s go sausage side and give them what’s for!’ was the age-old Tommy refrain when doing battle with their wurst-loving German enemy.
‘Once the Chinooks have deposited 3 Para they will lift, egress the target area and hold above 5,000 feet for the guys to get in, find their man, search the place and call for their pick up. If the operation is taking longer than expected they will return to Bastion and wait on thirty minutes’ notice to move for a call to collect the troops.
‘If all goes to plan, the Apaches will cover the Chinooks in low level and then provide protection to us, finally returning to Bastion where they will wait with us on thirty minutes’ notice to move, ready to escort us back in.’
I couldn’t help smiling. Unlike us, the Chinook crowd could switch off their machines, go and have a drink in their air-conditioned tent, and still be off the ground within thirty minutes of the shout.
Apache crews wouldn’t get out of their aircraft. They’d be on the Auxiliary Power Unit, main engines off but with all systems running, ready to go. The APU hardly used any fuel, so time was on our side. I’d once sat in the bird for six hours without taking off, my arse as numb as a dead man’s.
It was swings and roundabouts, though. The Apache was air-conditioned and generally very comfortable to fly; the Chinook was boiling hot inside and filled with dust and sand.
Jon gave me a nudge as Nichol concluded with the extraction details. ‘It looks to me as if the Apaches are only trusted to escort Chinooks.’
I nodded. If it all went to ratshit it would be the Jet Jocks that would be mixing things up with the Taliban.
Our Intelligence Officer stepped up to the plate and briefed us on the specific threats to aircrew-which basically amounted to Stingers and an anti-aircraft gun that had been sighted in the area. ‘If the reports are true, it’ll be fitted to the back of a pick-up truck. This weapon system is a significant threat, especially if the operator is competent. Better have the radar ready to detect vehicles.’
Most of the operational detail had been thrashed out in our absence over the last couple of days, but I reckoned we’d now picked up enough to allow us to take over if all went tits-up.
At the end of the brief I brought up the million-dollar question: what was deemed ‘hot’ and ‘not’? Hostile fire would be obvious, but what if there were male adults-or of mixed ages-in the tree lines or the general area, with or without weapons?
We decided that there were four different levels of ‘hot’-but knew that only Nichol could make the LS call.
We went and had a brew then corralled Dickie Bonn again.
We needed to know what would happen if one of the Apaches had a malfunction prior to arriving at Now Zad. Would the whole mission be postponed until its crew came back and changed aircraft? That would mean forty minutes in transit, twenty to swap aircraft and a further thirty to get it started-an hour and thirty minutes in total, assuming no snags. If the mission went ahead in the meantime, who would give the boys on the ground their Intimate Support? If we’d been read into the mission (fully briefed, prepared and ready to fly) we could be on the APU, waiting to go, a mere twenty minutes from being on station.
Worse still, what would happen if they got shot down and couldn’t return to the fight? Would they be sending out an unbriefed crew?
Dickie promised he’d have another word with the boss-when the boss had a minute to spare.
Nick was the squadron pin-up. He’d graduated from university, then Sandhurst, joined the Army Air Corps, and gone straight onto the pilot’s course. From there he’d been streamed directly onto Apache CTT1 and joined 656 Squadron. He was young, energetic, infuriatingly good-looking, and an enthusiastic and highly capable aviator.
He was to command our flight during this mission, despite being our least experienced pilot. It was the way the AAC worked. Jon-who had thousands of flying hours-would captain the aircraft from the back seat. While the commander was responsible for the success of the mission, the captain was responsible for the safe conduct of the sortie and the safety of the airframe and crew.
Jon had been a tank commander before training on the Lynx. His ability to interpret a battlefield was second to none, making him the perfect person to show Nick the ropes-even if he hadn’t been in combat with the Apache before. He was also our SupFAC. Supervisory Forward Air Controllers trained and coached the squadron’s pilots in the art of controlling fast jets and guiding their bombs onto targets.
Their callsign was Wildman Five Zero, and they were currently part of the IRT. If there was an incident in our AOR-in this case Helmand province-a road traffic accident, mine strike, injured personnel or even a compassionate case that needed to return home to their family, the IRT would respond. A Chinook did the ferrying while the Apache provided support. If the location the Chinook was bound for was deemed hostile, the second Apache, the HRF cab, would also go.
Apaches in combat were always flown in pairs-or more-for mutual support. Billy and I were in Wildman Five One.
Billy was the most experienced Apache pilot in the squadron, with more than twice as many Apache hours as any other pilot when we turned up in Afghanistan. Originally from the Royal Corps of Transport, he’d been driving vehicles on the ground and in the air for the best part of twenty years. He was qualified to fly both seats, and did so with immense gusto. Today he was captaining from the rear while I’d command from the front.
But for the time being we just had to sit it out.
Billy turned to me and said, ‘Do you think we’ll get away without firing a shot?’
I shook my head. ‘When was the last time you saw a plan surviving contact with the enemy? Prior preparation and planning…’
‘…prevents a piss poor performance,’ Jonny kicked a stone across the ground in front of him. ‘The seven Ps. Let’s hope you’re wrong.’
With just over an hour to go the mission timings slipped by an hour; 3 Para would now land in Now Zad at midday. We still didn’t have access to the spot maps of the area, the callsigns, the positions of the troops on the ground or the Chinooks and the fast air above.
We begged to at least be on the APU.
The answer was still no-if we were needed, we’d be given everything we’d requested ‘in sufficient time’.
3 Flight walked to their Apaches at 1030 hours.
We’d run out of road. We were into crisis management at the slightest deviation from the plan.
GO-GO-GO
SUNDAY, 4 JUNE 2006
Camp Bastion, Afghanistan
1030 hours local
10 Platoon D Company RGR leave Now Zad DC heading north towards Haji Muhammadzai’s residence in WMIK and Pinzgauer vehicles. There are thirty Brits and ten ANP in the convoy. After collection they are to continue to secure the eastern perimeter of the target by the wadi.
1115 hours
Patrols Platoon depart on their way to secure the western perimeter of the target to prevent the Taliban from reinforcing and to capture or kill any insurgents attempting to escape.
1120 hours
10 Platoon is contacted in a wadi just to the north of Now Zad, way short of Ali Za’I where they are supposed to inform Haji Muhammadzai of the planned cordon and search op. They are pinned down and can’t get back into their vehicles. The firefight becomes a furious battle in which they are fighting for their lives in true Gu
rkha fashion.
1130 hours
Patrols Platoon is in a fierce firefight in close country, totally unsuited to their vehicles. They too are trapped and fighting for their lives.
Two Apaches headed for Now Zad from Camp Bastion at 1130 hours on the dot, with no idea of what lay ahead. Exactly five minutes later, the Chinooks took off with the first elements of 3 Para on board.
The battle was being run from the 3 Para Ops tent-the JOC-so we could only listen to 3 Flight’s transmissions in our own Ops tent. And their scant sitreps gave us little sense of the full battle. Worse still, the CO 3 Para would be flying high above Now Zad, and the Chinooks’ insecure radios would only transmit when absolutely necessary for fear of compromise.
The mountains around Now Zad and the distance between us meant that even if we tuned into the ground troops’ frequency, we wouldn’t be able to hear a thing. The Apaches had good comms back because of their altitude.
We gathered round the radio operator to pick up whatever crumbs we could.
The air-conditioning pipe was on overdrive but the tent was roasting. It was like trying to chill a bucket of warm beer with an ice cube.
The first we heard back from them was that they had arrived on station. The place looked quiet. It wouldn’t take long to discover how wrong they were.
1155 hours
A Company’s 2 Platoon, the Engineer search teams and the A Company HQs led by Major Will Pike land in two Chinooks 100 metres to the north-east of the target on the intended LS and come under contact immediately. Their JTAC is Widow Seven Two.
A Company’s 1 Platoon land in their Chinook 350 metres west of their intended LS just east of the alternate LS, Green 6. They come under horrendous fire and have to fight through the Taliban’s defensive positions to stay alive. Once they get the situation under control they still have to make their way to the target compound, which entails climbing walls with ladders and trudging through swampy irrigation ditches under fire.
CO 3 Para remains airborne to direct the battle from above, protected by the two Apaches of 3 Flight.
1200 hours
3 Flight orientate and try to locate all the troops. It’s mayhem on the ground and the CO instructs them to assist his men in returning some semblance of order to his plan.
3 Flight are called by Widow Seven Zero to help Patrols Platoon break clean from the enemy. 3 Flight pour 30 mm into the warren of alleyways. Patrols Platoon are hugely grateful for the respite in enemy action and break clear after forty-five minutes of hell in what they’d thought was going to be a never-ending firefight.
1205 hours
‘Providing covering fire,’ Chris called.
It must have been madness on the Mission Net because he was speaking to Pat on the Apaches’ inter-aircraft frequency. They couldn’t follow transmissions from Bastion on this one, but for us to be able to hear them was a real bonus.
‘I can’t see into the compound they said the firing is coming from,’ Chris said. ‘I’m going to fire a witness burst into the next field.’
At that point we knew they had joined the fight.
We listened intently for any sign that we should be cranking up the next brace of aircraft. The boss was following the battle in the JOC next door. We tried to get in but it was already heaving. He told us to wait in our Ops room.
Everyone gathered in our tent to find out what was happening. After two and a half years of hard sweat the squadron was finally doing what it had trained to do. We’d been bashing our heads against a brick wall for the last few days, and were bursting to join the fight. The ground crews wanted to load up Apaches and welcome them back empty. The signallers wanted sitreps to pass onto command and the techs wanted to patch up bullet holes and send the gunships back into the ring.
The next voice we heard was Pat’s. He was picking off Taliban in the alleyways of Now Zad.
Jon and I exchanged a glance. I grabbed Dickie Bonn. He reached for the phone and spoke to the OC. ‘Suggest we stand to, sir.’
The OC instructed us to wait. ‘The battle’s being run from Now Zad and a stand-to hasn’t been requested,’ Dickie relayed.
‘No one in Now Zad’s going to be thinking about this. We need to—’
Pat interrupted my gripe over the loudspeaker.
‘Wildman Five Two. Sitrep as at twelve-twelve hours. Taliban contacts all over the place. Engaging to the south-west of the target area. Out.’
A quick glance at Jon and Billy and I could see they were as uncomfortable as I was that we were still in the Ops tent.
Jon could never remain motionless at the best of times, he just physically couldn’t. When he was standing, his hands were always tapping or altering the position of anything within reach. When he sat, he constantly lifted his heel and flexed his toes. Even when he was in his camp cot in complete darkness I could still hear him twitching in time with the music from his iPod. At least I hoped that’s what it was.
He was tap dancing like Gene Kelly right now, and checking the time every sixty seconds. I wasn’t much better. My watch was closer to my nose than it was to my wrist. If I bellyached, bleated, commented, complained, griped, grumbled, objected, protested, remarked, whined or whinged one more time, I would officially become the Grumpy Old Man of 656.
Over the Common Tactical Air Frequency (CTAF) we heard, ‘Wildman Five Two this is Saxon Ops. Send endurance. Over.’
I nearly gave him a round of applause. There was no reply to the boss’s request, but we knew how much gas 3 Flight had; we needed to move.
We were dying to get out and mix it up with the Taliban. And if we weren’t scrambled soon the boys on the ground would end up taking casualties.
Both Apaches were now involved in separate contacts. The place seemed to have gone berserk.
Billy had finally had enough. He went up to Dickie Bonn. ‘Look, we’ve got to mount up and we’ve got to have the spot and target maps. We need to walk now.’
I nodded. ‘It’ll take us ten minutes just to reach the aircraft and get in, and a minimum of thirty to start it up.’ On top of that, I told him, Now Zad was a twenty-minute flight away and it’d take us another ten minutes to RIP (Relief In Place) so the boys received seamless firepower from the Apaches.
‘Pat and his men should be breaking station at about 1330,’ Billy said. ‘That means we need to lift at 1300 latest.’
Dickie tried again but we were told to wait.
1230 hours
1 Platoon has managed to link up with A Company HQs and 2 Platoon. The target is now quiet and they set about searching the empty property.
The Gurkhas are holding the enemy firm but 3 Flight are called by Widow Seven Three to assist in 10 Platoon’s recovery to their vehicles and extraction. Protected by a shower of 30 mm rain, the Gurkhas return to the Now Zad DC.
Billy was beside himself with frustration. Jon looked close to exploding. Nick was thumbing through FHM and letting us know that we worried too much.
1258 hours
Major Black came running into our Ops tent. He went straight to
the signaller. ‘I want to know 3 Flight’s endurance.’
He turned to us. ‘How long until you’re ready?’
He hadn’t once warned us to be ready. But he wanted us to go and he wanted us to go now.
We were the IRT and HRF crews on thirty minutes’ notice to move so he could have answered his own question.
Nick-until that moment preoccupied with the challenge of tautening his torso in twenty-eight days-gave a pretty convincing impression of a coiled spring. ‘We are ready; we just need spot maps and a detailed brief.’
Smart of him to step in before one of us exploded.
The OC’s reply made our jaws drop. ‘There aren’t any left.’
The red mist descended in front of my eyes. In the time we had spent waiting we could have had a couple of sets made up. We would be the only players on the battlefield not having a clue what anyone meant. We were going to look like a bunch
of complete twats. Jon dragged me away a second before I went into meltdown.
As we ran out of the tent we heard the signaller shout, ‘Sir, they need to pull off at thirteen-thirty.’
We weren’t going to make that, and I hoped the Taliban weren’t listening because 3 Para were about thirty minutes away from having no Intimate Support.
We sprinted for our Land Rover.
‘Fuck the RIP,’ Jon shouted. ‘Let’s just get off the ground quick. We need to be in the air by 1310.’
1303 hours
My head whacked the roof of the Land Rover with one hell of a thump then I was thrust violently back onto my seat. The engine was revving so fiercely I could barely hear myself think. The door wouldn’t close properly and dust filled the cramped space. I was thrown to one side, and before I could protect myself I was lifted clear of the seat and my head hit a large nut on the underside of the roof bars. This time it really did hurt and I was seeing stars.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I snapped at whoever was driving in the front with Nick, ‘I know we’re in a hurry, but I want to get there in one piece.’
The outside temperature was ludicrously high and it had turned our hard-topped Land Rover into a furnace.
To add insult to injury, Billy and Jon were laughing like drains.
I felt the lump on top of my head and wished my hair wasn’t shaved so close to the bone. A thick pelt of hair might not have cushioned the blow, but it would have soaked up some of the blood.
My eyes were watering and the dust swirling around the cabin clung gratefully to any available moisture. I must have looked like a clown.
A few seconds later, Jon was catapulted upwards and cracked his head on the bare steel.
‘What goes around comes around, Jonny boy.’
We all burst out laughing. The tension was immediately released; and boy, did it need to be.