Battleworn: The Memoir of a Combat Medic in Afghanistan

by Chantelle Taylor

  We return to the medical room and quickly replenish the kit used. Once again, I retreat to the peace and quiet of my aid post to catch a couple of hours sleep. The noise from the radio next door ensures that it is never a deep one. It’s not long before I learn that Scotty’s boys are in trouble. I rouse quickly and head straight into the ops room. They are just over a kilometre away: their vehicle patrol is hit, and through the haze of battle, it emerges that one of the wagons is cut off. My heart is literally pushing at my throat at the thought of any of our lads being captured. The boss is beside himself.

  Panicked voices over the radio net are not painting a good picture. Monty is already mounted up, ready to provide QRF to the stricken patrol. It’s times like this when an experienced commander does not make a knee-jerk reaction. Monty is chomping at the bit to get to Scotty, but the boss knows that sending more troops to the ambush site will only add to our woes. Plus, it could have potentially disastrous consequences until we know exactly what’s happening on the ground. This is the first time that I’ve really gotten to see the boss at work. Maj. Clark is pacing up and down, going through every possible scenario.

  He speaks calmly and directly. ‘Monty, stand your men to, and await further orders.’

  ‘Roger that, sir,’ Monty replies.

  In one motion, he has eased Monty’s tension by standing the QRF to. Monty will now go off and rally his men; in turn, they will prepare themselves mentally to help their mates. It’s a psychological victory for all, and yet no one is moving anywhere. When you are on the outside of a situation looking in, you see why certain things are said or done. The last thing the boss needs is to send more troops to an already perilous situation; this would be a last resort for him. His soldiers need direction, and good commander that he is, that is exactly what he will give them.

  Barclay is the young platoon commander in charge out on the ground. Barely out of Sandhurst Military Academy (British army officer training), 2Lt Barclay will be running through options of where the vehicle may have gone. Together, he and Scotty will make a quick combat estimate, finding a workable plan.

  By now, the boss has eyes on the area with the use of a video link from an unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) drone.

  Barclay’s estimate will be uncomplicated and direct. In his mind, he will calculate a question: So, what is happening? We are missing a vehicle and three of my men. Therefore, I need to go back into the kill zone to get them. His combat estimate is then complete. His platoon, his soldiers, do not question his decision for a second; they are just desperate to find their missing comrades.

  The ops room is silent. We sit staring at each other for a few seconds before we go back to staring at the radio. Even if Barclay does find the guys, the Taliban may have gotten to them first. It doesn’t take long to kill someone. During our pre-deployment training back in the UK, it was made clear to us that if the Taliban capture you, it is likely that you will be killed. They will execute you and possibly film it for distribution on the Internet.

  Fifteen minutes pass, and still there is no news. It is becoming unbearable – everyone’s worst nightmare. Barclay is still searching, but there is still no sign of the missing WMIK. Another fifteen minutes pass, and then sound bursts from the radio: ‘Man down! Man down!’

  Through our interpreters via ICOM chatter (this is the interception of enemy transmissions via interim communications operations method [ICOM]), we can hear Taliban commanders and their men closing in on our stricken vehicle. My heart races, and my palms are sweaty again. Silence follows. I know everyone is wondering the same thing I am: What is going on out there?

  I start overthinking the situation, and I force myself to stop this speculative train of thought. Instead, I do well to concentrate on what’s actually happening. More information is coming through, and, suddenly, relief – the boss’s face says it all. They have found the missing soldiers, and every Jock manning the walls outside is desperate for the news. I am relieved but still anxious, eager to get hold of my wounded. Time is precious when soldiers are bleeding. The platoon eventually break contact, and the men head back to the base.

  There are three casualties we prepare for a speedy evacuation. The platoon commander’s driver, LCpl la Roux, has bilateral injuries to his ears. Blood oozes from both of them, and his balance is non-existent; this the result of a close encounter with an RPG. Scotty has multiple fractures to the small bones in his hand, and young Lt Barclay has a gunshot wound to his upper thigh. (Barclay would later receive the Military Cross for his actions.) Tonight’s casualties mean three more out of the game; with men injured on a now-daily basis, something will have to give. The Afghan soldiers must be forced to stand and fight with B Company; if they don’t, Nad-e Ali will fall.

  Barclay and Scotty are reluctant to go; losing command elements of any unit is a bitter pill to swallow. Barclay is just starting out in his career. For him, this is what he has spent the last eighteen months training for. I remind him that he has been shot; between them, they saved the lives of three soldiers. Fear does funny things to the soul; words on a page cannot ever truly describe the gut-wrenching nausea that you feel when rounds are zipping by. The non-politically-correct term of ‘my arse felt like it was about to fall out’ is the only description that even comes close. It might be the result of the shift in fluid that takes place in the body during the onset of shock, or the flight-or-fight scenario that’s a gift from the central nervous system.

  Leaving no time to dwell on the incident, trouble magnet Duffy comes bounding in. ‘A direct hit, Channy. Happy days, mucker!’ He is describing his direct hit on the enemy closing in on the lads; eyes on, he engaged with a 66 mm grenade launcher. His action tipped the odds in our favour.

  Cpl Gaz Wallace was the vehicle commander who was cut off with two others. As the night drifts on, I notice that Gaz is unusually quiet; I wonder if he’s okay, as he took in and maybe pondered on what could have been. I will catch up with him if he needs me; a soldier sometimes needs a moment to put situations into perspective. I don’t badger him; a friendly tap on the shoulder will do. We are a tight-knit group, and the lads know that our door is always open. The latest casevac results in another clean-up of our CAP.

  Later in the evening, the banter starts to fly around the base, with taunts of what might have been if the guys were taken prisoner. Jokes about orange boiler suits and getting bummed by the Taliban are rife. With the Jocks, the insults are never far away, and they provide a good indicator that morale is still okay. In fact, the more inappropriate the better; this is the way that we all deal with the emotional trauma.

  The news that more guys are heading our way is well received. We have already welcomed the PMT, and now a training unit called the OMLT (operational mentor and liaison team) are inbound. The OMLT is a small six-man training team; they will hopefully give direction to our Afghan brothers and help shape them. They have deployed from a much bigger UK training formation based near Camp Bastion. They don’t have a medic, so I loan them one of ours. I choose Sean for the task, as it’s a small team of six men working closely with the Afghans.

  While the ANA accept our help medically in the base, I do not wish to push my luck by sending a female to live with and support them. Our numbers are falling fast, so the arrival of the OMLT will give us a much-needed uplift both in morale and numbers – six is better than zero.

  Monty, now the sole platoon sergeant, faces a lot of responsibility. He has Cpl Jay Henderson as his second in command (2IC). Hendy from Wishaw is more than capable of holding the platoon together. Monty also has Davey and me on hand for support should he need it. Infantry soldiers are trained at least one up if needed; it’s not uncommon for commanders to be killed or wounded on the battlefield.

  Thankfully, Monty is a strong senior non-commissioned officer (SNCO) who looks older than his years; his men admire him, and my medics feel safe with him. He is a typical Scotsman: likes a drink and smokes as many cigarettes as the day will allow. He is also a sold
ier that I learn a great deal from.

  Given my mum’s background, I have no problems getting heavily involved in the Jock banter. Take young Ferris, for instance. ‘Shut it, ya wee fanny’ is a phrase that he often receives. Ferris is a comical young Jock who taunts all of the junior blokes and medics. Without realising it, he has become the soldiers’ morale booster, and he is always looking for an opportunity to act up. If he is not waking one of the other grunts up with the vision of his rear end or private parts right next to their face he is seeking out soldiers at their lowest point, trying to get a snap out of someone. Once the snap is complete, you will find the soldier recently at his lowest now laughing away with the rest of the troops. ‘Ferris therapy’ would never be approved by a medical board, but it works. I knew Ferris when I was a depot instructor. He was a young recruit when our paths first crossed. It’s hard to believe that we are now fighting alongside each other. He was the same then as he is now – a pest! I shake my head and laugh now, seeing his very white arse hanging out of a large hole in the back of his combats. This hole is from the wear and tear of the skirmishes that he has been in thus far, and he makes no attempt to cover it. It will no doubt soon provide a laugh for the other Jocks, if it hasn’t already.

  Settling down into my bed space, I dig out my iPod and engross myself in the solace of some of my favourite tunes. I select a top twenty-five from my library, knowing this playlist will see me through the rest of this tour. My iPod turns out to be my one saving grace during these testing times.

  Lying in the dark between Jen and Abbie, I think about my brother David. He was killed in 2002 when I was on exercise in Cyprus. David was trying to defuse a situation in the street outside a casino when he was killed. He was a non-aggressive person, which made his death hard to cope with. I keep a small picture of him in the inner sleeve of my body armour. It’s always there and very important to me. Along with the photo is a set of rosary beads. A friend of David’s gave them to me to put in his casket. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that his casket was already closed, so I kept them with me instead. I never thought of the beads as a religious symbol; they were simply full of memories of my brother.

  A year after David was killed, I deployed to southern Iraq. Looking back, I don’t think I went through a natural grieving process. My grief would not surface until much later. The photo and rosary beads saw me through some rough times during my tours of Iraq in 2003 and Helmand in 2006. They are still with me on this tour, so if they get me home safe, they will stay with me forever.

  Losing David was the worst thing that ever happened to me; the thought of losing blokes tonight reminded me of him. I was sure that if I were to die out here, my one consolation would be that I would get to see David again. The month after his death, I sifted through every inch of medical paperwork that there was on his case file. I tortured myself day and night, endlessly reliving the incident. I was also searching for someone to blame; as a medic, I felt both angry and guilty that I had not been there to save him.

  I do not have long to reflect on my feelings about David or anything else. In the next instant, I am up and running around in my body armour and helmet. The Taliban have let rip another onslaught. For a split second, I think that they must have known I was having a ‘moment’. This momentary grim humour aside, the truth is that every attack is getting a little too close for comfort. Their IDF may not be as accurate as the Taliban would like, but we all know that it only takes one lucky shot for someone’s day to end badly. Not today, though.

  I always appreciate that every man out here has a story to tell, so I dust myself off and move on, safe in the knowledge that my brother will be watching over me from somewhere. I tally up the casualties, mentally noting who was injured, and when. My body and mind alike are fatigued. I gather the medical team and make sure that they are okay. I may be in a command position, but these are my guys, and their safety is always my concern. We would become great friends during our time in Nad-e Ali. My medics and I are involved with every attack, whether inside or outside of the base. We rely heavily on each other to get things right.

  I think back to the summer 2006 when I deployed here with the 3 PARA. I never fully understood what it meant to be under siege when the young paratroopers spoke about the battle for Sangin. Nad-e Ali was turning into our Sangin – you had to be in the shit to understand what it felt like.

  The true lay of the land is known only by the enemy; this is their backyard, and they know every inch of it. When most units deploy into a base such as Nad-e Ali, they are supported by a small artillery unit, as well as an engineer squadron building up defensive walls. We have nothing: we were sent on patrol, and now we are holding a line that is very much closing in on us. The one useful asset that we managed to steal from the Throatcutters was a joint tactical air controller (JTAC), usually assigned to special ops. Remaining nameless and in the shadows, he saved more than a few lives, and for that we will always be grateful.

  For the most part, things are grim and getting grimmer. Rations are quite literally being rationed. The young men fighting are ageing well beyond their years. Our intelligence support is superior on all levels, along with our interpreters, who give our company clear understanding of the Taliban’s intentions and plans through ICOM chatter. It’s evident that we are outnumbered: every village within a five-kilometre radius is housing Taliban fighters. Plans are afoot to overrun our small PB, but I wouldn’t learn this little belter until months later.

  Another night passes. Activity in the PB starts early; everyone is up as Monty prepares to take his platoon out. As soon as any patrol leaves, everyone goes on to a heightened state. The thought of being overrun is always at the forefront of my mind. One of our guys has already killed at least twenty fighters. He doesn’t shout about it, but his success is well known across the company. The Apache gunships that have been regular visitors have torn up many more.

  The Taliban’s battlefield replacement plan seems to be working well: no matter how many we kill, they are able to replace them, and fast. We are lucky if we have two full platoons left. Monty’s platoon is out for less than half an hour before getting hit. I can hear Monty’s fire control orders clearly over the net; it’s almost as if he is standing in the same room.

  He calls for CAS, and our JTAC wastes no time in getting it to him. It sounds like some of the lads have been pinned down on the wrong side of a ditch. It’s not like the films where you can run along tracks and dodge rounds. If you are up and running, the likelihood of getting shot generally multiplies.

  Cpl Tam Rankine, one of the more-experienced section commanders, knows that the boys are in trouble. He sprints across the open ground to try to give them more fire support. During this rescue, he is shot in the hand, getting off lightly.

  After more accurate use of the 66 mm, the men manage to make good the ground that they have lost. Jen treats Tam when she can, calling in her casualty over the net. The guys are in the middle of a firefight, so it’s down to me and Sgt Maj. Robertson to go out to retrieve our wounded. My man Duffy has also been injured, and it doesn’t surprise me that he is in the thick of it.

  The Throatcutters are operating elsewhere, but they provide our QRF. We set off in three vehicles. I’m top cover for Davey, and there’s a 66 mm rocket beside me. As I check the 66 mm, it dawns on me just how lucky I am – my path in life could have been very different. I am in a world that few men or women have the chance to experience. All medics that hail from 16 Brigade who are attached to infantry companies are given an insight into all the weapon systems that the company employs.

  The Taliban attack any call sign, and when it heads south, everyone, regardless of job description or cap badge, can look forward to getting a slice. This is not a conventional conflict with prisoner of war (POW) camps. The Geneva Conventions actually means something in such conflicts, but it means nothing here. The waving of a Red Cross flag doesn’t cut it, either. The soldiers that I support are fighting hard, and I would feel asham
ed if I couldn’t offer a safe haven to them when they are injured. As medics, we protect our casualties by any means necessary.

  We head to where the fire is coming from; driving into contact is not for the faint-hearted. All I can think about is that hideous heavy weapon that the Taliban have been smashing the base with. A direct hit from the DShK would cut me in half. I look in the distance through the sight on top of my SA-80 (also called a SUSAT, for sight unit small arms trilux). I spot Jen running with her casualties. The noise is deafening. Davey also sees Jen, and he makes a hasty stop.

  We get out of the vehicles and pick our blokes up. I watch Jen go running back to the platoon sergeants group. Together, she and Monty just crack on. I like the fact that you can’t tell her apart from the others. When it’s real time, soldiers are soldiers – the guys don’t see Jen the female medic running towards them; they see ‘our’ medic.

  The running we did around the HLZ back at Lash, always wearing our heavy body armour, is now paying off handsomely. I get my casualties in the wagon, and we head back to the PB. Once there, I examine Tam and Duffy. As per usual, Duffy finds something to joke about, laughing at the fact that they were ‘shitting themselves when they were cut off.’ I am relieved that Duffy is okay. Losing someone so young doesn’t bear thinking about, and I have grown quite fond of his once-annoying habits.

  The boss needs a casualty report, and fast. I assess a gunshot wound to the hand and possible fracture to the lower limb both as cat-Cs, which means we have four hours to play with. Distal pulses on both are good, so they should be okay. Thinking tactically, I know the firefight hasn’t finished, so at the moment, the chance of more casualties is very high. Risking airframes for casualties that we can hold and treat is a non-starter. Sorting out fluids for both my injured, I think about the heat down here; it’s stifling today. The platoon eventually breaks contact: the guys are heading back in. I discover that Kev has already sent a nine-liner declaring that we have a cat-B casualty. I am angered by the lack of communication. This has become commonplace on the battlefield, and sometimes medics are too scared to speak out.