Battleworn: The Memoir of a Combat Medic in Afghanistan

by Chantelle Taylor

  A small green light in the back allows me to identify the loadmaster, and also gives me a path to follow with my casualties. I give the handover notes to whoever is available, and then count off all of my team before giving a thumbs up to the door gunner. It was painless and went perfectly, just as we like it.

  As the Chinook takes off, my team take cover. The downdraught almost blows me over. Good positioning, Taylor, I think to myself, replaying the landing in my head.

  We double back to the safety of the PB. All command elements gather in the ops room for hasty orders. No surprise to find out that B Company and its support are staying in Nad-e Ali for the foreseeable future. The unstable tactical situation here has become a major cause for concern; with so few boots on the ground, we will struggle to provide total security. I expect more soldiers will be inbound, bringing with them supplies and equipment. All we can do as a company minus is kill as many Taliban as we can in an attempt to cripple the enemy’s grip on the area. Isolated and very much alone, this could turn into a sizeable undertaking for the troops around me. As medics, we will of course support them as best we can.

  Maj. Clark is concerned about Tony’s condition, and Lt Col Nazim, the Afghan commander, is worried about his men. I reassure them both that I didn’t envisage any major problems; however, any number of complications could occur. The balance of survivability is definitely in our favour; all we can do is wait for news from Camp Bastion. Another long day culminating in a casualty evacuation (casevac) has left every man exhausted.

  Scanning our medical room and thinking about the questions that I often have that are never answered, I notice the silent, wide-eyed, panic-stricken faces. I am probably wearing the same expression myself. How were people reacting to combat stress and fatigue? In just forty-eight hours, so much already happened. The base was unsafe, and the blokes had yet to patrol out of it. I realise then that these men will come to rely heavily on me and my team; all of us in B Company know our roles tonight.

  I need a decent night’s sleep, but not before cleaning up the mess left behind by our injured. One thing is for sure: we haven’t seen the last of spilt blood. Creatures of habit, we always square away our medical room, preparing to receive again at any time. Sorting through used bandages, my attention is diverted to something else, I overhear a conversation between the boss and the kandak commander. It seems like a heated argument, as both of them speak in slightly raised voices.

  As I listen, I learn that the direct hit from the RPG has come from inside the base. An Afghan soldier fired low from the roof. Tony was manning the outer wall when he was struck by the RPG round.

  The Jocks don’t welcome this information at all. It’s not the best start to relations between the two sets of soldiers. Amazingly, the grunts take the news in their usual relaxed and politically correct stride. Cries of ‘cunts!’ echo around the PB for the rest of the evening. Too tired to care, I laugh quietly at the absolute outrage of it all.

  When all is said and done, the young Jocks realise that we have to fight alongside the Afghans if we are to stand any chance of surviving down here. The Afghan fighters are as knowledgeable as the Taliban when it comes to knowing the ground and terrain; their input is priceless, and it is our job to mentor them and introduce them to battle discipline. They have a medical team just like we do, and I am happy to mentor and guide them.

  My throat is parched, and I down two bottles of water one straight after the other. I need sleep, and look down with less-than-eager eyes at my thin roll mat and my even thinner bivvy bag. A quick brush of teeth, and I lay my head for the night. Thinking about what will become of us, I still hold on to a glimmer of hope that we may return to Lashkar Gah.

  In addition to being the capital of Helmand Province, Lashkar Gah is the seat of the provincial Afghan government. The base, in the centre of a heavily populated area, is home to the UK task force commander. I flew into Lash on a Chinook when I arrived twelve weeks ago, after initially landing in Kandahar aboard a Tristar.

  I had been here briefly in 2006; many changes had occurred since then. The deployment of UK military forces in Lashkar Gah (LKG) followed a tradition for the area. LKG means ‘army barracks’ in Persian. LKG was established a thousand years ago as a riverside town for soldiers accompanying the Ghaznavid nobility to their seasonal winter capital of Bost. The ruins of the Ghaznavid manors still stand along the banks of the Helmand River.

  The city of Bost and its outlying communities were mostly destroyed by the Ghorids, Genghis Khan, and Timur Lenk. Today the community of Bost is home to a hospital and airport. It also provides a great backdrop for photo opportunities to the increasingly popular military tourist. Steeped in history, the stunning scenery and Old World imagery provide a spectacular backdrop for photographic souvenirs.

  Back in Nad-e Ali, at the old school, we as a company group are writing modern history. The thick walls offer more warmth than that of the roof from last night. Sleeping for what seems like five minutes, I soon imagine someone pressing the fast forward button on a really old video player. The glow of the morning sun is already upon me. A voice mutters excitedly, ‘I have just managed four hours sleep!’ I groan; it is not my voice. Grumbling and puffy-eyed, I look at the dirty grey ceiling of our CP and then gaze around the room, noting that everyone has that ‘don’t talk to me just yet’ look about them.

  B Company stands to as the sun rises over Nad-e Ali. In normal circumstances, this would be my favourite time of day. The sky is serene and beautiful, softening the sometimes harsh landscape. The sounds of the muezzin bring to an end our stand-to. The muezzin, a man appointed to call to prayer, climbs the minaret of the mosque and calls in all directions. Many mosques no longer require the muezzin to climb the minaret. Instead, a loudspeaker carries the message.

  The mundane but necessary chores of morning routine are a welcome break from taking cover. My bladder feels like it is about to explode, and I can’t recall the last time that I emptied it. Stumbling outside, I search the nearby vehicles for my multipurpose yellow sharps container. This small piece of kit is designed to hold discarded needles, syringes, and so forth (i.e., ‘sharps’), but now it is affording me the luxury of a portable latrine. I have been using the handy piece of gear in this capacity for the last four months. Climbing into the back of a vehicle, I keep my dignity by balancing over the sharps container, out of sight of the base.

  Stuck in what now feels like a stress position for an absolute eternity, thighs burning, I can’t seem to finish. Moments like this make me wish that I had joined the Royal Air Force (RAF). Laughing for a second at my efforts, I try to stand up, succeeding eventually. Sleeping rough has left me with a few minor aches and pains. Smashing my head on the roof of the vehicle as I manoeuvre myself around sets me up for an awesome start to the day. Even the cumbersome Mark 6 Alpha helmet I’m wearing doesn’t stop the vibrations from going straight to my skull. I need to wash my hands, but water is scarce. I pull a packet of wet wipes out of the map pocket in my trousers, take out a wipe, and clean away the grime and remnants of what looks like blood from my lower arms. Hunched over in the back of the wagon, I pull up my trousers. Taking a small clear bag from the top of my basic wash kit, I use it as a makeshift rubbish bin. These very basic things make life bearable in a place like Nad-e Ali.

  If your personal administration is poor, you will not survive for very long in these conditions. My time teaching recruits all about basic field admin always reminded me how to deal with myself. After two years of showing them how to do it, I found this part easy: lack of sleep and self-imposed pressure would become my biggest challenges. My final chore is to brush my teeth; while I have no concerns about the rest of my body, furry teeth might stop me from functioning. It all comes down to personal choice, and my morale is instantly lifted when I have clean hands and teeth.

  Stomach rumbling, I remember that I haven’t eaten for a fair few hours now. My stained, grubby combats have become a little baggier around the waist – happy da
ys! I dig out my rations from my day sack and start to sift through the culinary delights that I will be enjoying today. British army rations are for sustainability only; they aren’t known for their Michelin star-rated menus. Perhaps I am being a bit harsh, but I would give my left arm for an American military ration pack right now, or ‘meals ready to eat’ (MREs), as they call them. A packet of M&Ms, lemon pound cake, chicken breast, and a mini bottle of Tabasco sauce can hide a multitude of tastelessness. Not today, though: corned beef hash and beans for breakfast. Starting my day like this is clever, as things will only ever improve!

  It’s not long before command elements are summoned to the ops room for routine orders. This becomes a regular event, regardless of the time of day or night. A PB can’t just maintain itself. The boss needs to be confident that everyone in his team understands what is expected of them. B Company will send out our first patrol later today: Scotty McFadden will lead his platoon out to meet a combat logistic patrol (CLP) coming from Lash with a resupp.

  As soon as the word resupply (‘resupp’ for short) is mentioned, I know that we are going to become very familiar with this morning’s call to prayer. I’m grateful to have packed some basic reading material, albeit a pocket-sized medical manual. The main operating base (MOB) in Lash will be a ghost town with the majority of its force protection down here in Nad-e Ali. What’s strange is that I am not as disappointed as perhaps I should be. In some crazy warped way, I hoped that we would revisit the badlands of Marjah, which lies south of Nad-e Ali. Kev and I often joked about the ‘Battle for Marjah’, having already felt the buzz of adrenaline that comes with close-quarter engagement.

  The mixture of fear and excitement left us naively wanting a little more. As it goes, a new story was emerging: ‘The Battle for Nad-e Ali’. This is what I thought I had signed up for; the word combat in my job title had finally come to fruition, and I didn’t want to be back in Lash listening to someone else’s war stories. Nad-e Ali had a different atmosphere than Lash; it was raw, feral countryside surrounded by the Taliban. I feel excited, nervous, tired, and scared, all at the same time. Above all, this is an experience that I have started to enjoy in a strange, almost macabre way. Wondering why I am drawn to such an unstable situation, I look at the blokes around me, realising that we all feel the same way. The fear we feel is healthy; it isn’t the same as a fear of heights or any other phobia. This is fear that needs a reaction, and that reaction brings out the very best in people – well, so far, anyway.

  The last forty-eight hours have given us a glimpse of what is yet to be thrown our way. The men in Scotty’s platoon (we call it a multiple) start preparing themselves and their vehicles for the upcoming patrol. They will leave under the cover of darkness. I assign Jen Young to accompany them; she has spent the last four months with these guys, and they trust her implicitly. Abbie, Sean, and I set about establishing a bona fide CAP next door to the main CP, as this will make passage of information easy. I start preparing a wish list to send across the radio net back to HQ, and, going by the casualties that we have taken so far, I order above and beyond what would normally be required.

  As lead medic with no doctor here, my responsibilities include the provision of a mass-casualty and evacuation plan. Patients must be categorised correctly at all times; this plan will ensure that the distribution of medical assets at brigade HQ level happens efficiently and without unnecessary delay.

  My secondary task on the PB is to assess environmental health issues; it’s not glamorous, but it’s a fundamental part of camp set-up and routine. Firstly I head to the toilet block that has been allocated to B Company; I get within five metres of the mud-brick walls and start to dry-heave on account of the smell. It appears that the Afghans prefer to use the outside walls as opposed to the block designed specifically as a toilet block! (I hoped the stench that greeted our arrival was a one-time thing, but no such luck.)

  The toilet-block structure comprises of five single cubicles, each containing a single hole into the ground below. On the back wall of each cubicle, there is a head-height window looking straight over the perimeter wall and out into Taliban country – just like a murder hole. Already I imagine the scene of getting shot in the face while squatting over the hole.

  ‘Hey, Channy, fancy getting shot in there, and one of us has to come and get you out?’ one of the blokes says.

  I acknowledge his banter by pointing out that they are the lucky ones sleeping next to the toilet block.

  Making my way back to the ops room, I report my findings to Sgt Maj. Davey Robertson; between us, we take on the responsibilities of camp routine and security. After one trip to the toilet, Davey manages to acquire an old wooden chair. Removing the leather top, he makes a temporary toilet seat.

  The day seems to go by in a flash, and with most jobs complete, the base is yet again plunged into twilight as last light looms. Stand-to orders are given. Like clockwork, the rounds start flying; this time, the Taliban concentrate their efforts on our gun positions, our best defence, much to their detriment.

  Medi, the Afghan soldier who fired the RPG at Tony last night, waits patiently to redeem himself. With no target acquired, he is stood down from any type of RPG action, much to the relief of the junior Jocks manning the wall. The attack isn’t sustained, and there are no casualties to report. All of Scotty’s platoon mount up under the command of 2Lt Alexander Barclay. After waving them off, I take the time to relax in the medical room. Davey and Monty discuss possible options for Nad-e Ali, as well as who might be sent to support B Company.

  Eating some biscuits fruit from my rations, I opt for lying out on one of the stretchers. I join in the discussion. ‘Which medic do you want to come and get you if you get shot in the toilet block?’

  An overwhelming majority announces, ‘Sean will come and get us, and you can see us back in here.’

  Our idle chat is interrupted as the radio net becomes busy. Listening intently to the traffic coming from next door, we hear that Scotty’s multiple has touched base with the CLP: they are exchanging kit and equipment along with personnel. Our company 2IC is inbound, and he will assume his position when he gets in. Kev relays all information to the boss without exception.

  The constant fear of an IED strike is never far away. The Taliban plant them at will, through the night, and, one way or the other, we find them – the following day or maybe a week from now.

  Hoping for a day without a significant event in Nad-e Ali is at best never going to happen. Within minutes of moving off, the convoy is in serious trouble. A desperate-sounding voice is heard over the net.

  ‘Hello, topaz zero alpha, this is topaz two zero. Vehicle down. Say again, vehicle down.’

  The net is frantic, and the mood in the ops room suddenly changes. Maj. Clark is desperate for information, as the gravity of the situation on the ground is yet to be established.

  ‘No contact report? What the fuck is going on out there?’ he asks Kev.

  Kev springs into action as I look on. ‘Hello, topaz two zero, this is topaz zero alpha. Send sitrep (situation report). Over.’ He starts to repeat the message. ‘Hello, topaz two zero this is—’ Before Kev can finish, the stricken call sign answers up.

  ‘Topaz zero alpha, this is topaz two zero. We have one disabled vehicle that has rolled into the canal. Roger so far? Over.’

  ‘Topaz zero alpha, roger.’

  ‘Topaz two zero, there are multiple pax (personnel) trapped inside, and the canal is waterlogged. We have set up a security cordon and a rescue team on site of the vehicle. Over.’

  ‘Topaz two zero, this is topaz zero alpha. Keep me updated, and let me know if you need us to deploy QRF, send LOCSTAT. Over.’ (QRF is short for quick reaction force. LOCSTAT, in short, is location with grid reference.)

  ‘Topaz two zero, roger that. Out.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ says Monty, adding, ‘this is all we need.’ He goes to warn the QRF, just in case they need to push out. It’s dark, and the stricken call sign is in a preca
rious situation.

  We all understand that it’s not just the water that poses a threat; our guys are now firm in a position on the ground. The Taliban attack when you are most vulnerable, so Scotty’s crew must act fast. I start to worry about our guys potentially drowning out there. Our vehicles, especially the snatch with its stupid box body, will prove difficult to extract from. The thought of being trapped in one as it fills with water doesn’t conjure up a great picture. Drowning being right up there on my list of how not to die, regardless of people saying that it’s peaceful after the initial struggle; unfortunately, it’s the struggle that you are actually awake for.

  The ops room waits for news, and it’s not long before we are updated again. ‘Hello, topaz zero alpha, this is topaz two zero. All pax have been extracted from the vehicle, which is now immobilised. Seeking permission to deny the stricken vehicle. Over.’

  ‘Acknowledged your last… wait out.’

  Getting permission to deny a vehicle – in other words to permanently disable it – must go through the chain of command back at brigade HQ.

  With no means of bringing the stricken vehicle back in, the established procedure is to destroy it with high explosives and make sure that any sensitive equipment does not fall into enemy hands. All the while we wait, we have injured soldiers on the ground, pinned down to one location. Needless to say, B Company is in for another long evening.

  Getting permission for a vehicle denial from brigade HQ is never easy. A logistician at HQ demands that our chain of command must exhaust all avenues before using high explosives. The boss loses patience.

  Getting on to the net himself, Maj. Clark speaks to brigade HQ directly, advising, ‘All avenues have been exhausted, and this is an extremely hostile AO (area of operation). Permission for the denial is required immediately. Over.’