Battleworn: The Memoir of a Combat Medic in Afghanistan

by Chantelle Taylor

  No one wants to take responsibility for such a colossal fuck-up. The patrol commanders thrash it out in the ops room, leaving relations between B Company and the Throatcutters strained, to say the least. No one is talking, and I see that my command chain is in no hurry to kiss and make up. The truth is that the situation happened during a phase of fighting commonly known as the ‘fog of war’; it’s never welcome, but it happens, and in some cases it is unavoidable.

  Our base is on its knees, when it comes to manpower; we need battlefield replacements. Looking around, we as a group are threadbare. My own positive mental attitude is waning. Sgt Maj. Tony Mason from the mentoring team is out of the game, and Davey needs a number two for outgoing 51 mm mortar missions. I offer my assistance, and he accepts. Times have become desperate, and it’s very much a case of each of us doing whatever we are capable of doing to help hold Nad-e Ali.

  The military’s Law of Armed Conflict states that as a combat medic, I can only fire in anger to protect myself and/or my casualties, unless the circumstances are deemed exceptional. With sixty-six out of one hundred men injured and four Afghan soldiers dead, I am comfortable with the notion that Nad-e Ali is now in exceptional circumstances. I don’t take the decision lightly, but I think about us overrun and slaughtered by the Taliban. I can see the spun headline now: ‘Female Medic among the Dead, Unable to Man the Mortar’. I will always upset someone along the path that I have chosen, and that someone can continue to battle it out on their own call of duty battlefield. Weak if I die while surrounded by munitions; wrong if I use those munitions because I choose to survive.

  After the death of my brother David, I knew that I would never allow myself to become a victim; and if there was ever an opportunity for me to do something – anything – to avoid that, I would take that opportunity. I would do whatever was necessary to avoid it. That is still true for me; it always will be.

  As the number two on the mortar, my role is to prime (or arm) mortar rounds for Davey. I have been trained on how to use the weapon system, learning to do so during another course at the ITC in Brecon. It is a small weapon, easily man-packable, and often used if the Taliban attack at night. The team fire what we call ‘para-illum’, which, at a fixed height, detonates and lights up the night sky. Its powerful flare lasts for almost thirty seconds, allowing the Jocks to identify the location of enemy fighters hiding under the cover of darkness.

  There was a time when it would have been unheard of for a medic to man the mortar line, times are a-changing. The Jocks aren’t concerned: it doesn’t matter what cap badge you wear so long as you can do the job. The days of definitive front lines are over; this is a 360-degree battlefield. My time in Marjah has already proved that every soldier must be prepared to engage the enemy, or at least be capable of reacting to any given situation. I am grateful for the hideous training that I have put myself through prior to this deployment. Spending much time with Paul Scott, a sergeant in 2 PARA’s support company, I learnt all about support weapon systems from him, including how to employ them within a company group. His skill helped to shape mine, and with his guidance, I passed both basic tactics and our military senior range qualification courses. Tactics with distinction, the other ‘scraping’ an A grade. Scotty joked on my return that if I had been a paratrooper, I would have passed both with distinction. I was, and still am, grateful that he took the time to teach me.

  He must have gotten something right, because here I am in Helmand Province, about to embark on my first mortar mission. It’s a hesitant one. As Davey fires, I nervously hand him mortar rounds from the crate next to me, making sure that the safety pin is pulled off the side of the nose fuse (that’s the way that the bombs are armed before firing).

  We work well together. I practice firing when using the illuminated flares or smoke rounds, and this makes sure that I get it right when firing high explosive (HE) rounds. We smash through several crates before coming across a crate of duff mortars, ineffective perhaps from heat damage. Setting them aside, I call for another crate.

  The time I spend on the 51 mm takes my mind off the depressing reality of how many casualties we are taking. The CAP is always my top priority, but this secondary task gives me something other than blood to focus on.

  PB Argyll is under attack now, and Davey and I hurry out to our pit. Straight into it, Maj. Clark calls out, ‘Five rounds from the 51! Fire for effect, Sergeant Major.’ Off we go like a well-oiled machine. Within seconds, the boss sprints out of the CP, screaming for us to take cover. ICOM has identified that IDF is imminent.

  Davey and I lay face down in the dirt, waiting for the incoming mortars or rockets to land. Out in the open ground, with no cover at all, sheltered only by my oversized helmet and the plates in my body armour, I think back to the moment when I offered to help, wondering, What the fuck was I thinking? Volunteering? Haven’t I learnt anything?

  There by the grace of God go Davey and I. A great man, I have a lot of admiration for big Davey, mainly because he cares so much for his men. Their welfare is always his priority, and he makes sure that they know it. He is the bearer of all news, good and bad. Unscathed, we pack up our makeshift firing pit and head back to the CP.

  A few hours later, Davey approaches me as I carry out some personal chores. He tells me that one of my section medics has been shot down in the Nawa district south of Lashkar Gah. We were there the week before this mayhem started. LCpl Andy James was one of my squadron’s rising star’s; he’s been evacuated to Camp Bastion. The news puts our whole team on a downer. Of late, the days have brought us nothing but shit news. Andy was due to join us down here in Nad-e Ali. It could be worse though, at least he is alive.

  I retire to my roll mat for some much-needed quiet time. A quick hour should do the trick. Closing my eyes, I fall into the deepest sleep. Ten minutes in, and the PB is hit again. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ I mutter, waking like a bear, with a sore head, body armour intact, and helmet straight on. Rounds ping their way through the ops room windows, this time ricocheting around the room.

  A young Jock narrowly missed yells out, ‘Ah, well… better luck next time, ya fuckin’ bawbags!’

  Flashheart is up and about, clutching his red iPod.

  ‘You okay, sir?’ I ask before lying back on my roll mat.

  ‘I’m always okay, Sgt T,’ he says with a smile.

  ‘Red iPod okay?’ I say.

  No reply this time, just an awkward smile followed by an awkward silence.

  Capt. Wood laughs in the corner before mumbling, ‘Man-crush.’

  The jokes and abuse keep everyone grounded, and after a truly desperate couple of days, I wonder how much more we can take. We have two platoons of men who aren’t fully manned, and we have no OMLT to mentor the worn-out kandak.

  Four soldiers are dead so far, and we count ourselves lucky that we haven’t lost more. The boss orders another no-patrol day tomorrow, and the news is most welcome. Flashheart and his now combat-ineffective team will await the arrival of the new OMLT, just as B Company will await the arrival of the first elements of 42 Commando. The kandak will remain in place until further notice; not a nice prospect to face, but they carry on regardless. I remember meeting the OC of Lima Company, 42 Commando, which would replace us in Lash. He was on the advance reconnaissance package that units do prior to deployment, which gives an indication about ground covered, future intentions, and all of the other good stuff that make up the ‘big picture’. We Brits always do our recce way too early; a lot can change in a few days, let alone weeks.

  By the time these guys turn up, their AO is completely different from what they were briefed back home. We deployed on a familiarisation patrol around Lash district centre, covering all noteworthy points. Towards the end of the patrol, we encountered a suicide bomber dressed in a burqa. The Afghan police shot him dead before he could detonate very close to Governor Gulab Mangal’s compound. The burqa was bright pink, a very unusual choice of colour for these parts, paired with glitter-emblazoned high
heels. In short, it was not the low-profile suicide bomber that I was expecting. Identified as a male, he couldn’t walk properly in the heels that he wore, which first attracted attention and then quickly sparked suspicion. Non-cooperation to verbal warning orders led to a burst from an AK-47 assault rifle.

  Heading straight to Nad-e Ali, Lima Company of 42 Commando are in for an interesting start to their tour.

  CHAPTER 8

  ALI CAT

  ADVANCE PERSONNEL FROM 3 COMMANDO BRIGADE ARE INBOUND THIS morning, and my first thought is how disappointed they will be when they realise that the shower is out of bounds. Having served in support of members of 42 Commando in Sierra Leone, I am well acquainted with their unique practices. (They provided force protection for our small team when deploying to the more rugged areas upcountry.)

  Marines are definitely a different breed. My grandfather was a Royal Marine, and he fought in Korea. Buck Taylor was part of ‘the Raiders’ 41 Independent Commando, and his unit suffered great losses. When he chatted of his time in Korea, he spoke quietly of the day that involved a daylight raid into the area of Sonjin. Many of his close friends never made it home. Nothing can make up for that loss, but 41 Independent Commando were awarded an American Presidential unit citation in 1957. Extremely proud of his days as a Commando, Buck was buried in his much-loved Green Beret, and his regimental blazer was rarely off his back.

  My grandfather passed away in 1999 at the age of seventy-four, not old in today’s terms. Serving on operations in Kosovo at the time, I received a letter from him soon after he passed; he must have written it before he died. I read it time and time again, enjoying the way that he wrote. It was old fashioned, and our handwriting was exactly the same. He wrote in the letter that I should trust no one and never turn my back on the enemy. If I react I am to react with speed. He went on to quote from ‘The Man in the Arena’, an excerpt from a speech given by Theodore Roosevelt in 1910, shortly after his term as President of the United States [see this book’s epigraph]. The junior medic in me had no real understanding of what any of my grandfather’s letter meant – neither his own words nor the quoted speech. I laughed at the ‘trust no one and react with speed’ piece, just thinking he was an old-school war hero.

  Afghanistan was where the penny finally dropped. Neither a grunt nor a man, a combat medic serving in support of a brigade, made up of the type of soldiers that he was talking about. The speech is about men like him, men who put themselves out there, men who push themselves and aren’t afraid of the prospect of failure. With all the action in Nad-e Ali came plenty of quiet time, often tending thoughts of family and close friends and how much they meant to me. I feel extremely proud of my grandfather, but I never got the chance to tell him. They don’t make them like him anymore; he didn’t blame an ex-wife or poor upbringing for the few issues that he had. Nowadays people don’t want to take any responsibility – it always has to be someone else’s fault. He signed his letter ‘Semper Fi’. I would hear this again, many years later from my comrades of the US Marine Corps. I look at my own faults, and, like most people, I have plenty. For the most part, though, they make me who I am. It took me a while to take responsibility for being impatient, sometimes unwavering. It’s fair to say I am fiery in nature, and before I can stop myself, words have usually already fallen from my lips. My dad taught me that a strong offence is the best defence. Maybe I take that too literally at times. However, if we were all the same, life would be a flat line. Not immune to diving straight off a fence, I don’t always land on the safe side. That’s just who I am.

  When my grandfather spoke about trusting no one and not turning my back on the enemy, I smiled, thinking, When will I ever be face-to-face with the enemy? Maybe Marjah was what he was talking about. I hadn’t planned to engage or kill anyone that day, but sometimes you are forced into the ‘arena’, whether you like it or not. It’s the action you take that will often decide your fate; an element of luck can be useful at times too. I don’t pretend to know all the answers, but my grandfather’s wisdom makes me ask tough questions, and sometimes that’s the best and the most we can do.

  I wonder why betrayal happens to us. The coalition forces have been so trusting of our allies. Sometimes there’s no choice but to be trusting. Both we Brits and the Americans have been hit hard by trusted Afghans who in some cases have worked alongside us for many years. I believe that this was the very type of enemy that my grandfather referred to. I think he meant that I should trust when I had to, but never fully – especially when dealing with a society that is very different from our own.

  Thinking about my grandfather makes me think fondly of the Commandos. They have their own quirks, some of which are almost ritualistic, like their shower fetish. Wake up, shower, go for a run, shower, have a lunchtime nap, possible shower to refresh, afternoon gym session, shower, and bedtime. Showering is clearly the primary activity. That certainly won’t be the case here. With water at a premium, the grunts and attached arms usually opt for the much-loved ‘3 PARA shower’, which means clean nothing, or do the bare minimum.

  Support elements from the incoming unit will be first to arrive, but it’s unclear how the main body will arrive. According to the boss, a move by air is the most probable. We will hand over our vehicles and equipment just the same as we would have back in the PRT compound.

  I notice today that the temperature has dropped. The majority of the soldiers in Argyll are taking a well-earned rest, enjoying the cooler weather. Abbie and I sit chatting outside the CAP having a cup of tea and enjoying some ‘biscuits fruit’. The military sometimes describe things in a weird, backward fashion. Any normal person would surely say ‘fruit biscuits’. They aren’t dissimilar to the old-school Garibaldi biscuits, the ones that your dad normally likes, right up there with Jamaica cake or corned beef.

  After twenty or so minutes, Abbie spots something moving about underneath the WMIK sitting directly in front of us. She climbs underneath to investigate, finding a tiny friendly call sign. ‘It’s a kitten!’ she says. The little thing is foraging in a discarded ration box, probably looking for food. Abbie manages to lift the animal out from its shelter, delighted by the tiny ball of fur.

  Brought up around dogs, I never really had time for cats. Kosovo was the first time that I had any type of association with one. We adopted a tiny black-and-white kitten, and he would often sleep on my camp cot while I was out. His company became routine, and I liked having him around. In our world of ever-increasing absurdity, we named him Scooby after the huge cartoon dog Scooby Doo. The very British satire of Monty Python is evident in most soldiers; it’s the irony of the shitty situations in which you find yourself that often get you through. Our cat was euthanised by an overzealous environmental health technician. I didn’t show it at the time, but I was angry that the little man had been killed. He was a welcome distraction for the medics coming back from the horror of assisting the Canadians with the exhumation of mass graves. Sometimes soldiers at the forefront see a very different picture than those who serve in the rear echelons.

  Animals provide a source of normality in what are very abnormal circumstances. So long as you don’t start cutting about like Dr Doolittle, I see no harm in keeping animals around camp. Common sense says that you can’t have wild packs of dogs running around a base or snakes climbing over camp cots like something out of the Jungle Book.

  I presume the cat Abbie found is a male. She gives him some water, and after all this time, I finally find a worthwhile purpose for my army ration pâté. The kitten loves it, and I am delighted to have found a legitimate reason not to eat it. It sounds more professional to say that I need to feed the cat than to offer my usual ‘it tastes like shit’ excuse. We name him Ali Cat because he is a survivor of Nad-e Ali.

  Ali Cat becomes a permanent fixture in and around the ops room, much to the disapproval of the boss, who even forced Davey to show his compassionate side. We would often find the sergeant major playing with or feeding him. Just the previous
week, Davey unintentionally traumatised himself with an incident involving another cat in the PB. Ham found a kitten that was far smaller than Ali Cat, even smaller than my hand; in fact, you could only just make out its tiny features. Initially the main effort was to find its mum. We searched every inch of the base – gun positions, toilet block, and so on – but there was no sight of her. I found it strange that a nursing mum would go so far away from a newborn, but maybe this was the way that cats rolled in Afghanistan. With the situation unfolding, everyone on camp decided to become the resident expert in wild cat behaviour. ‘I can offer advice on how to be “feral” if that is any use, people.’ After much discussion, the overall consensus was that Mum isn’t coming back.

  We tried to nurse the kitten ourselves, using small syringes to feed it. The culturally different Afghans looked at us, wondering why we were bothering – it was just a cat, after all. I realised then that with so much destruction around them, the blokes needed an outlet to show kindness to. This is still true, and now we have a new kitten. Ali Cat might help mend the mental scarring that in some will be inevitable, and these small slices of humanity are what make us different from our Afghan counterparts.

  The Jocks won’t hesitate when pushing a bayonet into another human being, but they will always show compassion and kindness to casualties of war, including animals. It’s the children of war whom soldiers normally reach out to; their innocence will sometimes uplift the desperate and unforgiving reality of battle. There are no youngsters in Nad-e Ali. In fact, we are using their school as a PB.

  The Jocks never show that they are bothered by our circumstances, but during quiet times showing some affection to a small kitten isn’t so uncool, and it gives them something to think about other than killing the Taliban. Recalling our efforts with the first kitten, I hope Ali Cat will fare better. All attempts to feed the newborn proved fruitless, and it would have been cruel to leave it to die in the heat. Making milk from the powder in the sachets from our ration packs, we tried everything. It was not a shock when the kitten rejected every attempt. Deciding on its fate, we agreed that we should put the newborn out of its misery, leaving the sergeant major with the unenviable task. I don’t want to think about it, so I just convince myself that Ali Cat is bigger and stronger, and all will be well.