Fire Strike 7/9

by Paul 'Bommer' Grahame

  As rounds slammed into the vehicle and RPGs roared overhead, Peachy and the medic blatted away with the WMIK’s 50-cal and Gimpy machine guns. Crashing over ruts and with Corporal Hill driving the race of his life, the open-topped Land Rover somehow made it through without being blown up or anyone being killed. The wounded were loaded aboard, and now Peachy and his lads had to return the way they’d come.

  The enemy knew it. They’d set a series of RPG ambushes on the route, and as the WMIK thundered back along the track, with Peachy and the medic trying desperately to keep the wounded aboard, the bush erupted in a wall of fire. At the same time the entire company was pumping rounds into the enemy positions, with the careering WMIK sandwiched in between.

  Unbelievably, the vehicle made it back to the high ground, and although it was peppered with bullet holes and shrapnel, not a man aboard had been hit. As the WMIK belted up to the makeshift LZ, I banked up the F-15s to 15,000 feet, to deconflict the air, and cleared the Chinook in to land. The casualties were run up the helicopter’s rear ramp and loaded aboard.

  In a storm of dust the giant, twin-rotor machine clawed its way into the air, and turned towards Camp Bastion. The casualties were on their way, but by now we knew for sure that we’d lost one. Corporal Paul ‘Sandy’ Sandford, a nineteen-year-old 2 MERCIAN lad and a real character in 6 Platoon, had been shot by an enemy sniper. Most likely, we’d lost Sandy long before the lads had battled their way through the Green Zone to evacuate him. There is a ‘Golden Hour’ – the sixty minutes in which every casualty is supposed to be air-evacuated to the Camp Bastion field hospital. In Sandy’s case, no matter how quickly we’d got him out we could not have saved him.

  Butsy had sent a clearance patrol back into the area where Sandy was hit, to retrieve his body armour and kit, but it was gone. The enemy knew we had a man down, and they would have seen the Chinook go in to pick up the casualties. For the first time in the battle for Adin Zai they had their heads up, whilst we were feeling like a crock of shit.

  The entire company was out of the Green Zone, and the contact had died down to just about nothing. There was still the odd RPG and sniper round coming our way, but that was about it. It was 1045, and we’d been fighting for four hours solid, and we were back where we’d started. Things weren’t going as planned.

  It was at this moment that I got the call that there was a fourth casualty needing evacuating – only this time it was one of them. We had an injured enemy fighter in our custody. He’d been shot twice by one of our lads, and he was an urgent T1. We’d just had Sandy shot in the head and a lot of us wanted nothing more than to slot him, but we knew we were better than that. We’d give that wounded enemy fighter the same relief as we would our own. We’d get him on to a Chinook, and back to the field hospital at Camp Bastion – in spite of knowing that if the enemy captured any of us, we’d face a slow and agonising death. It was all about doing the right thing on a rough day.

  Before I could dial up a casevac, the Vector was hit by a savage barrage of 107mm rockets. They must have had more than one 107mm launcher in action, for the warheads came in thick and fast, smashing into the dirt all around the wagon. They were trying to drive us off the ridge line, but the only way we were leaving would be in body bags.

  With the platoons gone firm on the edge of the Green Zone, we were the only part of the company with eyes directly on the enemy. They had their heads up and they were dangerous. I still had that pair of jets trying to sniff out their positions, but not a sign of the enemy could be found. They’d just been shooting up our lads big time, yet they’d disappeared into thin air.

  Throp got the Vector moving, and we shunted back and forth on the ridge line as the 107mm warheads tore into the burning white of the desert to either side of us. As I clung on in the rear of the sweltering, bucking wagon, there was a squelch of static. I grabbed the TACSAT.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Ugly Five Three.’ It was the Apache pilot. ‘Understand you have an urgent casualty. Suggest we reland the heavy at LZ and pick up your T1.’

  ‘Ugly Five Three, Widow Seven Nine. Appreciate your offer, but right now we’re under a barrage of 107mm fire. It’s too dangerous to bring in the heavy. Wait out.’

  The 107mm rocket launcher has an 8.5 kilometre range. I didn’t know where the bastards were firing from, but the LZ was only a kilometre back from us. A direct hit from one of those twenty-kilo rockets wouldn’t do a Chinook any good at all, not to mention the aircrew and the wounded lads it was carrying.

  I tasked the F-15s to come in low and noisy, searching for those launchers. I briefed the Ugly call sign to do likewise. And in the resulting lull in the rocket barrage we brought the Chinook back in, and the enemy casualty was loaded aboard. As the Chinook thundered off into the burning skies to the west, I got a call from Dude One Five.

  ‘I’m ten minutes past my dangerously low fuel level,’ the F-15 pilot informed me. ‘Widow Seven Niner, I’m sippin’ on air. I got to bug out right now.’

  His wing aircraft was bugging out with him, which would leave us with no air. Just as soon as the F-15s had left the airspace, the 107mms started smacking into the high ground all around us. We were back in contact, and the lads had their heads hung low and were at their most vulnerable.

  I got on the TACSAT and demanded air. I got a call from Damo Martin, at the Fire Planning Cell (FPC) cell, back at FOB Price.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Widow Eight Two. I’ve been listening in on the air, and I’ve got you a pair of Recoil call signs inbound, five minutes out.’

  ‘Roger that,’ I replied. ‘And thanks, mate. We fucking need ’em.’

  Damo was a class act. He’d been monitoring my frequency, and even before he’d heard the F-15s were leaving he’d dialled up the Harriers. He knew I was up to my eyes in shit. He’d just anticipated what I needed and got it done. It was a top job.

  I called up the Harrier pilots. ‘Recoil Four One, Widow Seven Nine, do you copy?’

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Recoil Four One, I have you loud and clear,’ came back the crisp English accent of the pilot. ‘We’re inbound your position, four minutes, standard loads. You’ve got us for four hours on yo-yo.’

  ‘Recoil Four One, that’s class. Sitrep: I’ve got three platoons gone firm on the high ground above Adin Zai, having withdrawn from a heavy contact. We lost three lads …’

  As I briefed the Harrier pilots, I realised how dire was our situation. We were four and a half hours into the battle and we hadn’t broken in to enemy territory. We’d lost the momentum, and everyone had to be wondering if the mission was going to get sacked. I could only imagine how Major Butt was feeling, over with the main body of the troops. The OC was in a hard place. Taking Rahim Kalay was supposed to be the easy part of a mission, a prelude to Adin Zai. Intel had Rahim Kalay slated as a bog-standard Afghan village. Yet we’d stumbled into a bloody hornets’ nest, and had been badly stung. 6 Platoon – Sandy’s lot – had been well shot up, and they were lucky not to have lost more.

  I sparked up a tab and waited for the Harriers. Down at the desert muster, Major Butt was stealing a few quiet ‘Condor moments’ himself. He could tell the men of 6 Platoon were badly shaken. They were a strong fighting unit, but they were quiet now, and choking back their tears. None of the lads were in a time or place where they could allow themselves to grieve.

  Major Butt called up the commanding officer of 2 MERCIAN, and briefed him on the situation. It was 1120 hours and his men were low on ammo and water. They’d lost three, and had gained no territory. The word from the CO was that the mission had to proceed. No matter what, they had to take Rahim Kalay and Adin Zai.

  When the OC gathered his platoon commanders together to brief them, he faced one of the toughest moments of his entire career. He told the men they were going back in. He told them they had to get back on this bike and ride it again. And he assured them that he would be there with his HQ element, at the vanguard of the fighting.

  Once he’d finished the briefing, t
he OC came up on the air.

  ‘Charlie Charlie One, all stations. Orders: 5 Platoon, 4 Platoon, continue assault as planned. Advance in contact to retake terrain and compounds. 6 Platoon, remain in reserve. Sergeant Major: resupply of ammo and water as required. Somme Platoon to provide rear security. Czech unit to harass enemy as two platoons move forwards. FST, no change. Resupply and rearm as necessary. Zero hour – 1145.’

  As soon as I heard that message I had visions of First World War soldiers going over the top again. We were going back in, and we had twenty-five minutes in which to get ourselves battle-ready. And I knew just what we needed: we needed Apaches. The lads were going to have to fight their way back into the same terrain, and it was going to be up-close and brutal. Only by using Apache gunships would I be able to do the beyond danger-close airstrikes that would be required.

  I dialled up Widow TOC and told them that no matter what, they had to send us gunships. They told me I’d have two Ugly call signs overhead in twenty minutes. I was getting my Apaches.

  The call from the Harrier pilot came just minutes after the lads had restarted their advance. All was quiet in the Green Zone, but my instinct was screaming danger at me. The silence was ominous and menacing, and it set my skin crawling. We were being watched, and I sensed we were being lured into a trap.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Recoil Four One,’ came the Harrier pilot’s call. ‘I’m visual three males of fighting age hiding something under blankets in a compound to the fore of your troops. They keep looking at the wall in the direction of your advance.’

  ‘Roger that, but what are they looking at?’ I demanded. ‘Are they looking through the wall at our lads?’

  ‘Negative, they’re looking at the wall,’ the pilot repeated.

  ‘And the bloody bundles …’

  ‘Contact! Contact!’ Sticky started yelling. ‘5 Platoon’s being hit by RPG and small arms from a compound sixty-five metres east of their positions.’

  The death-rattle of the small arms and crump of the RPGs exploding was deafening. In an instant I’d forgotten the Harrier pilot’s men-who-stare-at-walls, and I was on the TACSAT to Damo Martin. Sixty-five metres was beyond danger-close for missiles or bombs, and the Harrier carries no cannon. I needed bloody Apache.

  ‘Widow Eight Two, Widow Seven Nine. We’re in contact, and it’s beyond danger-close! I need those fucking Ugly call signs now!’

  At the moment I finished the call there was a massive explosion, as a 107mm slammed into the ridge line just metres to the north of us. The blast blew me and Sticky off the roof of the Vector, and in through the wagon’s turrets. At the same time the noise of battle ramped up in volume, as the chuntering of heavy machine guns added to the racket.

  Just then I got the call that I was longing for. ‘Widow Seven Nine, this is Ugly Five Zero, do you copy?’

  I clambered back out of the wagon’s turret. I had the TACSAT jammed against my ear, in an effort to block out the battle noise.

  ‘Ugly Five Zero, Widow Seven Nine, go ahead,’ I yelled.

  ‘Two Ugly call signs inbound your position ten minutes, standard loads, two hours’ playtime.’

  ‘Roger that. Sitrep: I have two platoons in the Green Zone, both under danger-close contact from small arms, machine-gun fire and RPGs. We’ve got 107mm rockets targeting us on the high ground …’

  I talked the Apache pilots around the battlefield, and asked them to search in the compounds to the forward line of our troops. The Harrier pilots had spotted males of fighting age in those buildings, but they’d yet to kill a single one. To be frank, I was getting well pissed off with them.

  I’d just finished briefing the Apaches, when I had a Harrier pilot on the air.

  ‘Near the compound to the forward line of your troops I’m visual with a stationary white saloon car. It looks suspicious.’

  ‘Does it have a fucking weapon on top of it?’ I demanded.

  ‘Negative. No weapons or pax visible.’

  ‘Well, it’s not fucking suspicious then is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s the way that it’s not parked under any trees that raises my concern.’

  ‘Wait out,’ I snorted.

  I didn’t bother saying any more. Our lads were getting smashed from four different positions, and the Harriers had still to spot a single enemy fighter. They were flying a £12 million ground attack aircraft armed to the teeth with Paveway laser-guided bombs, yet they hadn’t ID’d a single target, apart from an unoccupied white saloon car.

  A couple of minutes later there was the distinctive thud-thud-thudding, as rotor blades cut through the air. From the Vector’s turret, the squat black forms of the two Apaches were clearly visible powering in towards us. Ugly by name, ugly by nature. Get in!

  But before the gunships were overhead, the raging contact died away to zero. The bastard enemy had heard the Apaches coming, and had gone to ground. There was nixy gunfire from anywhere, now that I had my airframe of choice overhead and primed to seek out and destroy. It just went to show how disciplined and professional the enemy could be.

  Just as soon as it had gone quiet, 4 and 5 Platoon were up and clearing compounds on the western outskirts of the village. But not an enemy fighter was to be found. It was unbelievable. How was it that one minute they were spraying our lads with gunfire and RPGs, and the next they had gone?

  A boatload of enemy fighters couldn’t just vanish. How were they doing this?

  Where were they?

  ELEVEN

  WE WERE MORTAL

  ‘All call signs in my ROZ,’ I rasped into my TACSAT. ‘I want you searching for enemy fighters in the compounds to the fore of our troops. Thirty seconds ago they were malleting our lads from those positions. Find them.’

  I got the Harriers and Apaches deconflicted by altitude, with the jets up high, and set them to work. I got another call from Recoil Four One about the white saloon car. Apparently, it was obstructing our line of advance through the centre of the village. It was forming a chokepoint, and the pilot reckoned that it might be a massive bomb. Well maybe he had a point, but first I wanted to find and kill some enemy. At 1315, with the lads pushing into the village, I got the call I was least expecting.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Ugly Five Zero, we have orders to return to Camp Bastion.’

  ‘You are fucking joking me,’ I spluttered. ‘Tell me you’re fucking joking! The only reason we aren’t in contact is ’cause we got Apache above us.’

  ‘I’ve got Higher kicking off big time about aviation fuel. We’ve been told we’ve got to leave.’

  ‘Well, you’re not fucking going,’ I told them. ‘I’m not bloody letting you.’

  I got on to the OC, and it was crystal clear Butsy shared my sense of anger and abandonment. He and his men were taking a whole world of shit on the ground, with small arms, RPGs and mortars still hitting them. If they tried to advance without Apache, they’d be walking into a series of massive ambushes. Butsy was fuming: Bommer, get me something else over us.

  I got on the air to Damo Martin. ‘Widow Eight Two, there’s no fucking way I am losing those Apache. We’ve lost three lads already, and it’s only Ugly that’s keeping the bastard enemy’s heads down. I am not losing them.’

  ‘It’s out of my hands, mate. The TIC’s closed, and those are the rules.’

  I knew full well what the rules were. You were supposed to have an active TIC (troops in contact) to have Apache overhead. But as soon as they left us we would have a TIC, so what was the difference?

  ‘Damo, earn your bastard pay grade and tell whoever you need to those Apaches aren’t leaving.’

  ‘I can’t make that call, mate. It’s above my level.’

  ‘Well, get it up to the bastard level that can make that call.’

  ‘I can’t authorise it.’

  ‘Then get the bloody colonel to,’ I told him. ‘He’s there with you, isn’t he? He wears the crown and a pip. Tell him to keep those bloody Apache over us.’

  Damo told me
he’d try. I got back on to the pilots.

  ‘Ugly Five Zero, Widow Seven Nine. Listen, mate, I’ll remind you once and once only: we’ve had one T4 and two T2s, and the only thing that’s preventing more is you being above us.’

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, we’re low on fuel and we’ve had comms failure in one aircraft. We have to return to base now.’

  ‘You can’t bloody do that!’ I yelled. ‘It’s only you lot keeping the enemy off of our lads.’

  The only reply I got was an echoing void of static. I cursed those Apache pilots, yet little did I know that the aircrew had been choking up listening to me. And their comms had failed: the ‘crypto fill’ – the encrypted communications system of one of the helicopters – had dumped. It made the aircraft next to useless, and they had no option but to set a course for Bastion.

  As the noise of the Apache’s rotor blades faded away on the baking desert air, I got a call from one of the Harriers, Recoil Four Two.

  ‘I’m visual with male pax running around the compound to the forward line of your troops,’ the pilot reported. ‘They’re taking up positions at those same walls.’

  No sooner had he said it than there was a burst of fire, and a volley of RPGs came streaking towards our positions.

  ‘Widow TOC and Widow Eight Two, this is Widow Seven Nine,’ I yelled into my TACSAT. ‘We’ve got a fucking TIC! The Apaches have gone and we’re getting smashed. I want those AH back! I want them fucking back at all costs, before someone gets killed.’

  ‘Widow Eight Two, fucking right you’ll get ’em mate.’ It was Damo. ‘I’ll get a lift to Bastion and launch them myself if I have to.’

  ‘Just get ’em back above me, before more of our lads get whacked.’

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Recoil Four Two,’ the Harrier pilot cut in. ‘Visual male pax carrying around bundles, uncovering and covering them up again, in same compound as before. It looks highly suspicious, but I can’t PID any weapons.’

  ‘Recoil Four Two, Widow Seven Nine: hit that compound. I want you to use a GBU-12 500-pounder on a west-to-east attacking run.’