Battleworn: The Memoir of a Combat Medic in Afghanistan

by Chantelle Taylor

  When we get back to the UK, we will talk to other soldiers about our experiences, if we talk about them at all. In the past, I tried to describe certain situations to friends at home, but they unintentionally look bored. Maybe it’s my storytelling ability! In any case, I proceeded to talk to my drink of choice for that evening, enjoying its response far more than that of my friends. This is just the way it is.

  I don’t have the luxury of thinking about my own experiences for long – there’s work to be done. Good news from Lash brightens the mood. We are getting a resupp tonight, along with the OMLT for the Afghans; they should have been here days ago, but like so many things in this part of the world, they have been delayed. Monty will also get a platoon commander.

  The OMLT are drawn mainly from the Royal Irish Regiment (RI); when they arrive, they will work and live among the Afghans. We know from past experience that rogue Afghans have taken guns to British and American troops several times. It’s a job that I would not relish, and I admire the troops that do it.

  The day passes without incident, and everyone looks forward to the resupp. I do a little personal administration: clean my weapon, wash my smalls, carry out the underwear-under-the-T-shirt drill, and dust my feet with powder. I am looking forward to the introduction of some new rations; the same old choice is killing me. I am desperate to taste something other than mashed-up steak and vegetables. I am also conscious of the fact that my arse is in danger of being on display to the general populace of the base: the thin material is wearing away. My combats are covered in blood and grime and in desperate need of a wash; even the boss has commented on my state in general ‘Sgt T, it looks like you’ve gone feral.’ He’s right.

  Everyone’s kit is in turmoil; hopefully, the medics back at Lash have packed up some stuff for the four of us medics out here, and this will be sent down on the helo as part of the resupp. I know that I can rely on the team at Lash, and for a moment, I miss the banter back in the medical section.

  I briefly wonder if they know what is going on out here, and I am sure that they have had their own casualties to worry about. We had a fair few ourselves back early on this tour. The MOB was aptly named ‘mass casualty central’, as large numbers of locals pass through the aid station en route to the Bost Afghan hospital.

  The atmosphere around the PB is buzzing now. The resupp is the first bit of good news that we have received in the last six days. The RI team from the OMLT will take some of the pressure off the boss, especially when it comes to the handling of the Afghans. They will now have a full team to mentor them out on the ground.

  Looking after yourself and your team can be challenging, but directing a patrol of Afghans, many of whom seem to mince around with their safety catch off, is a major concern… at least for me, anyway.

  I ask Abbie to calculate our casualty figures while we adjust some of the kit in the medical room.

  She shouts out, ‘Thirty! We have evacuated thirty casualties!’ Her calculations have surprised her.

  Even now, I struggle to remember them all. It’s like the past six days have been a blur. I try to recap all of the injured, but I can’t actually remember them. I look at the book… evacuated thirty casualties in six days? I am not bothered by that particular number. It’s just that I realise that we are here for the next two months, so what on earth does the future hold?

  I check the stock list that I have made and start to think about other items that may become useful. I write down anything that comes to mind; the majority of it involves bleed kits. Not a fan of medics playing God, I like to evacuate our seriously injured quickly. I have no replacement blood to give, and casualties are always going to be better off when they reach Camp Bastion. It’s not a time for me or my medics to start experimenting with our skills. Identifying the need for early surgery is a skill that we as a brigade have mastered very well, and we use it to great effect.

  Our drill is clear. Only make limb-saving or lifesaving interventions, and leave the rest to the surgeon’s knife. B Company and the Afghans are being hit hard. I notice one thing in myself and the others on day six. We as soldiers are no longer bothered by the situation in which we now find ourselves. Even the last-light attacks have become a bit of a circus.

  If it only took six days to become hardened to the ferocity of war. How long would it take for us soldiers to recover from the emotional scars that combat will inflict on us? British troops, along with the Americans, have sustained many casualties and endured heavy fighting in both Afghanistan and Iraq. Where do we go next? I believe that the psychological impact on our soldiers has yet to be measured.

  I have read and learnt from older colleagues that combat stress was high in Northern Ireland during the troubles that spanned across decades from 1969 to the late 1990s. In Ulster at the height of the violence, the fear of being shot dead in a sniper attack created a huge psychological impact on young soldiers. The Iraq campaign delivered a new kind of fear of being captured and beheaded by insurgents.

  These modern-day conflicts are not like the battles of the great wars; they, too, were mentally and physically draining of course, but the soldiers knew that in the main, if captured, they would be sent to a POW camp. Afghanistan and Iraq offer no such assurances; they are barbaric. The Taliban will hang a pregnant mother and cut her open in the street if they think she has spoken to coalition forces; troops on the ground will carry that visual forever.

  Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) has been prevalent for many years among those who have served. Military life has always encouraged a heavy drinking culture, and we, the British public, live in a society dominated by alcohol. This is fine in moderation. For many men and women coming home from conflict and having experienced hardship or situations which have affected them mentally, it can be a struggle to integrate back into normal life.

  Mundane tasks without routine can be difficult, and problems often go unnoticed. The more time that you spend in a uniform, the more institutionalised you become. My family noticed changes in me when I came home from previous tours, and my lack of patience would sometimes cause me to act irrationally. I recall standing in line in a cobbler’s shop when the man in front of me seemed to take an age over what he wanted. He kept repeating himself time and time again. I could feel myself getting angry, and before I could do anything to check myself, I found myself gripping him for taking too long. The way I spoke to him was unacceptable, but at the time I didn’t comprehend what I was saying. He looked taken aback. As I stormed out of the shop, I felt embarrassed and wondered what had come over me. In hindsight, I try to pinpoint if my PTSD was from personal or professional trauma; I definitely suffered far more mentally from the death of my brother. PTSD is not just for those who have been to war; in some cases, the support network is non-existent in the civilian world because the signs are not recognised as quickly.

  Striving to do well all of my life, I had become overefficient at everything, almost robotic. I was obsessed with getting tasks done at warp speed, ensuring that I was straight to the point about everything. My phone manner was boorish, rebuking sales advisors over my inefficient phone contract or berating the banking phone service about unknown transactions. I was wearing myself out, and, worse still, I was wearing my family out.

  I recognised what I was doing; fortunately, I come from a household where there is no problem letting you know if you are acting like an arsehole. Words from my father etched into my brain: ‘You ain’t the sergeant major in this house.’ Roger that, Dad. I toned down my enthusiasm to three-quarter warp speed. I had always been motivated, that was part of my charm, so it wasn’t all down to PTSD.

  I just had to consider my tone and stop publicly chastising people. The shoe guy was lucky that tar and feathering was no longer acceptable.

  Relating very much to the film Falling Down with Michael Douglas, I identified the build-up and eventual breakdown of people in countries that are falling into a quagmire of hatred. When our fallen come home and are at risk from protest an
d disruption, or our soldiers are called murderers and child killers as they march through their home towns, it angers me.

  I force myself back to the present, a bit jangled by mental digression. I know that we will all have to face PTSD and other waking nightmares once we return home; having gone through it all before, it is hard not to think about it. But focusing on the tasks at hand is necessary, for the guys I support as much as for me.

  Time draws close to the eagerly awaited inbound flight. It’s after midnight, and the HLZ is secured and ready to receive. The Chinook lands and begins to drop off its load.

  ‘One, two, three, four, five, and six.’ I count the crates for Davey as they come off.

  The helicopter isn’t down for long, and it quickly takes off under the cover of darkness. A gopping mouthful of dirt for me as a souvenir of the helo’s departure. Great… my teeth are sticking to my lips, and unless I get to some water soon, that is the way that they will stay. This is as bad as having furry teeth, perhaps worse, but I will crack on in spite of it.

  Davey calls for the all-terrain vehicle (ATV) and trailer to come. They arrive quickly, and everyone mucks in to help offload the pallets. We all notice the clean-looking soldiers helping; they must be the overdue OMLT.

  Hearing the unmistakable tones of someone who can only be an officer, I get eyes on the back of a floppy blond mop of hair. He sounds like he must be a Guards officer, very well spoken and using an abundance of dialogue to relay information that could be understood better using sign language. The young Jocks look on, ignoring him in the hope that he is talking to someone else. The officers of 5 Scots are rough around the edges, and that is absolutely cool with me; they don’t lack intelligence, they just know how to handle their men, no pomp and no ceremony. This is as it should be with grunts, and they like it that way.

  Proper introductions with the new arrivals will wait until tomorrow; it’s late, and my roll mat is calling my name loudly. The boss declares a no-patrol day tomorrow, so everyone can get some rest. I settle down to another restless night’s sleep, and it is not long before the brightest of suns initiates another early start. My unkempt hair is slowly turning into dreadlocks, and I am aware that I smell funkier with each passing day. I note how clean the OMLT are, compared to the rest of us, but rest assured that it won’t be long before they are just as dishevelled as we are.

  These guys have already been involved in heavy fighting up north. I wonder how they will compare their past experience to life in Nad-e Ali. The arrival of the OMLT reminds me of the RI soldiers that served with the brigade in the summer of 2006. I think about Spence, a colour sergeant (CSgt) who taught me a hard lesson during a tactics cadre at the infantry training centre in Wales (ITC Brecon). He was injured in the Sangin Valley back in 2006, and he gave me an unexpected appreciation of the ferocious (or teeth-arm) soldiers that I would be supporting on future operations. In one particular training attack, I was appointed the number two on the GPMG, also called the 240.

  I was part of a two-man gun team, and my role was to assist the gunner by carrying extra ammo. Initially, I thought that I had a much easier task than going forward as one of the assaulting section. I can still recall my own smugness as to the easy role I had been given. One effort up onto the high ground, and then all I had to do was place myself into a fire support position until the enemy had been cleared, feed my gunner rounds while lying on my belt buckle giving over watch to the assaulting section and looking for fall of shot for my gunner. How hard could that be? I thought at the time. How wrong I was.

  It was only a matter of minutes before I found out all about my colossal misjudgement, and here started the lesson that I now reflect on. It’s simply this: no one gets an easy job when it comes to fighting. Everyone in the platoon had already endured a long tactical advance to battle (TAB), and everyone was hanging out (that is, physically exhausted). When we came under effective enemy fire, the platoon advanced and began to close on the enemy. Gun teams began to move into positions on the high ground, including me and my gunner.

  CSgt Spence decided to prematurely kill off my gunner, which left me carrying the heavy machine gun, my own weapon, and all the machine guns rounds (or ‘link’, as we call it) that we were carrying between us. ‘Not so easy anymore, eh, Sgt Taylor?’ he shouted.

  My eyes said it all as I shuffled along before falling heavily into a fire support position; the DS (instructors) tried hard not to laugh as they watched me. Pretending that I was absolutely fine, I dug deep to try not to show any signs of pain as my body smashed against rocks that were almost too well placed.

  Feeling like both of my lungs were collapsing, I continued to engage the enemy. Only when the reorg (or ‘regroup’, a term used to pause and replenish ammo and await the next order) was called at the end of the assault did I wish to be a part of the assaulting section – to be honest, I really wished that the exercise would come to an end. Any plausible excuse that did not involve my having to run from my location to the enemy position would have been welcome. It was one of the hardest things that I had ever done physically. The sheer weight of all of my kit made me vomit a little down the front of my smock. Why hadn’t I tried harder to expend more ammunition? I searched for any reason that would make my kit lighter.

  During the course run by the junior division, I had a little taste of what an infantry soldier does, and I am more than happy not to taste it again. Anyone who has spent any amount of time in the Brecon Beacons of Wales will appreciate how hard the infantry get it. That’s why most of them have a bit of an attitude. I would too if I had to go through junior and senior command courses down there. I was one of three females who were the first to attempt the all-arms infantry tactics cadre. Coming from three very different backgrounds – combat medic, artillery sergeant, and a military police SNCO – all three of us made our mark. Passing with distinction before being awarded the honour of top student, I was glad to have the chance to learn more about low-level tactics. (I would be gladder still later on when those lessons saved my life.)

  My days in the cadre were a lot like my current time with B Company in many ways. Over the last four months, I have gotten to know our company pretty well. I’ve chatted at length about my background and experience with Davey, who consistently sees humour in the strife and hardship that I’ve opted to undertake.

  ‘Why do you do that shite to yourself, Channy?’ he always says.

  ‘Who knows, Davey? It’s something that feels natural to me,’ I always reply, reflecting the truth of my misspent adolescence.

  As we sit talking, Davey is relieved to find that there’s a warrant officer in the OMLT group. Tony Mason of the RI Regiment is quite a character. He certainly has the luck of the Irish, along with a contagious smile, both of which will see him and his crew through some rough times. When you see his smile, it makes you smile, and before long, everyone is smiling – about nothing.

  Monty’s new platoon commander arrives in the shape of 2Lt Du Boulay, straight out of Sandhurst and in-country for just a few weeks. I am unsure how a brand-new officer will survive out here; 2Lt Barclay, who had gathered some experience during the early months of the tour, shone brightly during his short stay here. Du Boulay will soon alleviate any doubts about his ability; in fact, he ultimately proves to be one of the finest officers that I have ever served with. (He, too, would be recognised for his bravery, receiving a mention in Dispatches for his courage and leadership under fire.)

  Finally getting eyes on the voice from the night before, I am not surprised that he resembles Flashheart, the fictional World War I flying ace from Blackadder, the BBC comedy series. Just as I am thinking this, Ham McLaughlin comes into the ops room, asking straight away, ‘Who the fuck is that, Flashheart from Blackadder?’ We laugh because it’s true: the officer is tall and a little awkward in his own skin, plus he has that mop of floppy blond hair that I’ve already described. Much like Flashheart, his attempts to make friends and influence people fail miserably. To put it bluntly, he
is a snob, and I think some of the officers are slightly embarrassed by his behaviour. He’s regularly reassured in no uncertain terms as to where he falls in the chain of command.

  In a combat environment, it’s important to have your share of every type of personality, just to keep things interesting. Flatliners make for boring battle buddies. Flashheart – I often thought of him as simply ‘Flash’ – did bring some morale in the shape of a red iPod. The blokes made great use of it, and not on account that his music taste was awesome. The red iPod is well stocked with a variety of ‘alternative’ entertainment. Suffice to say that with Flashheart leading the kandak into battle, it was all about to get a little more interesting.

  The boss’s plan for a no-patrol day is welcome and relaxing. We get stuck into the medical room and unload the new medical kit that has arrived. Weapons are cleaned, and the lads are taking full advantage of getting some extra sleep. Everyone struggles to sleep in the heat of the day, but sometimes just lying in some shade while swimming in your own sweat is better than nothing at all.

  We are not let down when it comes to last light, as the Taliban give their usual show of force. The only difference today is the introduction of the PKM, a Russian-designed 7.62 mm machine gun with an effective range of 1,000 metres. It’s the Taliban equivalent of our own GPMG. I visualise the Taliban soldier eating his scoff before firing random bursts in our direction, just as a show of force and thankfully not accurate.

  Orders are late today, and with everyone gathered in the ops room, it’s time to discuss naming the PB. This is something that all units do; it easily identifies the PB when it comes to mapping and the like.

  Forty minutes later, it’s no surprise that the PB is named Argyll, on account of the soldiers defending it.

  The base will soon be enjoying the peace that darkness brings. The place is always in complete blackout during night hours, reminding me of my own stupidity of smoking during our early evacuation.