Fire Strike 7/9

by Paul 'Bommer' Grahame

  ‘Roger, stand by.’

  The F-15 could be anything from ten to forty minutes at the tanker, depending on where it was in orbit. I wanted an air platform that could drop bombs. I was also worried that the Apaches had fired a boatload of rounds, and were low on ammo. I got allocated Recoil Four Three and Recoil Four Four, a pair of Harriers.

  As luck would have it the tanker must’ve been close to my ROZ. I got the F-15 back above me in no time, and I sent the Harriers on their way. Almost immediately, the F-15 pilot spotted more fighters in the main compound. His bombs must have driven them out of the tunnel system. I got him to hit them with another GBU-38, which blasted the compound into shattered heaps of rubble, and there were four confirmed kills.

  The pair of Apaches had been in action for a full hour now, smashing the enemy wherever they found them. It was 1410, and this was without doubt the maddest hour I’d spent in theatre. We’d been smashing everything that moved. The company was still firm, but under sporadic fire, and I sensed we were starting to win this battle.

  Finally, the Apache pilots turned their attention to that white saloon car.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Ugly. Not happy with that vehicle. It’s blocking the track between two walls, and your lads will have to walk past it to advance into the village.’

  ‘Roger. Stand by.’

  All the aircrews had sensed a danger emanating from that vehicle. First, the Harrier pilot – but I’d ignored him. Now, the Apache aircrews. I passed it up to the OC. Butsy said if there was no one in the car we should hit it, to get rid of the thing.

  ‘Ugly, you’re cleared to hit that car.’

  ‘Roger. I’ll hit it with one times Hellfire, to deny it. Banking around. I’ll give you a sixty-second call.’

  A few seconds later I got the call from the Apache. The missile fired, a blinding flash of flame yellow blooming on the aircraft’s stub-wing. I saw the high-explosive armour-piercing warhead plummeting earthwards. There was a flash of black against the grey-brown of the village, and an instant later the crack of the exploding Hellfire rolled over us.

  I was on my TACSAT asking for a BDA, when four further explosions echoed across the battlefield from the same impact point. The blasts must have torn the vehicle to pieces, for I could see chunks of metal spinning into the air to the nearside of the enemy compound. As the explosions died away, a dense column of oily black smoke fingered skywards, and the saloon car was engulfed in a seething mass of flames.

  ‘BDA: direct hit,’ the Ugly pilot reported. ‘Secondary explosions. It’s going up like Blackpool seafront. Looks like it was full of mines or RPGs, or maybe an IED.’

  ‘A big well done, lads,’ I radioed the Ugly aircrews. ‘Double A-star top fucking job.’

  ‘Happy with that,’ the pilot replied. ‘We’re Winchester ammo and approaching bingo fuel. We need to return to Bastion. The position seems clear of enemy forces, but watch out for the tunnel system running beneath the compound.’

  Winchester ammo meant the Apaches had fired off all their 30mm cannon rounds. They were also running short – ‘bingo’ – on fuel.

  ‘Roger that, Ugly. You guys should know you saved a lot of lives down here today … We lost three, but there’d have been a whole lot more if we hadn’t had you above us.’

  ‘We’re glad we could come back to help,’ the Apache pilot replied. ‘We’ll ask Bastion to keep a replacement flight on standby, just in case.’

  ‘Roger that. We’ll do a BDA by going in on foot. I’ll let you blokes know all about it afterwards.’

  ‘Right, we’re out of here. Good hunting, Widow Seven Nine. Stay safe.’

  As the Apaches banked away from the battlefield and set a course for Camp Bastion, I asked the F-15 to do one more attack run. Two of the four caves had been hit: I wanted the third taken out, leaving the one for us to explore on foot. I got Dude Zero Three to put a GBU-38 into the tunnel mouth, and then he had to bug out, low on fuel.

  The F-15 was ripped by Recoil Four One and Recoil Four Two. It was 1630 as the Harriers came into the overhead, and both 4 and 5 Platoon were ordered to recommence their advance on foot. As they pushed into the village proper I got the Harriers flying shows of force. The battlefield had fallen absolutely silent. There was no further incoming – not a sausage.

  The OC’s orders were to get the entire company in to Rahim Kalay by last light. As the foot soldiers advanced, Throp fired up the Vector and we drove in alongside them. There was nothing else moving apart from us lot. We reached the centre of the villages passing by the shredded remains of the white saloon car, which was still a raging inferno.

  The OC split the company into smaller units, each tasked to check out enemy positions. The main compound had been totally flattened. It reeked of burning, death and scorched flesh. I’d never known that bone could burn, but it had blazed and vaporised in those airstrikes. There were corpses and bits of unrecognisable, bloody mess everywhere.

  Along with Jason ‘Peachy’ Peach, the B Company sergeant major, I crawled into the one remaining cave entrance. The others had been hit by the GBU-38s and collapsed. By the light cast from our head torches, we could see there were two dead bodies in the far recesses of the cave. Both the enemy dead were still clutching their weapons. I guess they’d crawled in here after being hit by the Apache’s cannon fire, and this is where they’d died.

  There were cases and cases of ammo in the tunnel, plus dozens of sleeping positions and boxloads of food. The enemy had prepared a real stronghold here, from where they could have withstood the longest of battles. At the far end of the tunnel there were side entrances, which had to connect to other tunnels and rat runs. But with the entire cave system having been pounded from the air, neither of us fancied taking a crawl further inside.

  With the battle well and truly over, the OC ordered the Czech unit down from the high ground. The lads took their vehicles over to the south side of the canal. There they did a walk-around inspection of the woodstrip – the enemy position that the Apaches had malleted with cannon fire and flechette darts.

  There they found an interlinked trench system with cleared arcs of fire, plus sleeping gear and caches of food and ammo. There were fourteen bodies in the woods, including one guy who appeared to be fixed to a tree trunk. He had tiny red stains all over his robe, and an AK-47 slung around his neck. He’d been peppered with flechettes, the tungsten darts nailing him to the tree.

  Towards the western edge of the village one of the lads found the sniper point from which Sandy most likely had been shot. The enemy sniper had been firing through a tiny aperture. It was completely hidden from view, and we’d have had little hope of finding the gunman. There was one hole for the rifleman, and one for a spotter, just as our sniper units tended to operate.

  A series of interlinked defensive positions were strung across Rahim Kalay. The OC had chosen this as the ‘easy’ route of advance into Adin Zai, as that’s what the Intel had told him. In fact, this had been a fortress manned by hundreds of enemy fighters – complete with underground arms stores, bunkers, sniper holes, trench lines and a series of hidden tunnels to move around in, unseen from the air.

  Had the Apaches not discovered that first compound position, and flushed the enemy out, we would have advanced on foot into the mother of all ambushes. Our attempt to take Rahim Kalay would have been met by a wall of death. It didn’t bear thinking about how many of the lads of B Company would have been smashed in there. We would have lost far more than we had already that day.

  As darkness crept into the silent village, we manoeuvred the Vector between two compounds that provided a little cover. We were to the north-east and on the far side of the village. To the north lay the open desert, and to the east stretched the Green Zone. Whatever enemy had survived the onslaught, it was into there that they would have fled.

  It was 1900 by now, and for the first time since the day’s battle had begun the company HQ element, the platoon commanders and the FST gathered together. In every so
ldier’s mind was the same thought: that we’d lost Corporal Sandford, had two other serious casualties, and very nearly lost the battle. It was unbelievable that we hadn’t lost more lads, and largely thanks to the Apache pilots that we hadn’t.

  Butsy talked for a while about Corporal Sandford’s death, the way 6 Platoon were holding up, and what to do with Sandy’s personal kit. Then he spoke of the assault plan, and what we might have done to prevent losing anyone. The OC was clearly gutted at losing one of his own. He took this very personally, almost as if it was his own failing.

  ‘This is my analysis of what happened today,’ the OC said. ‘We stirred the hornets’ nest. We stirred and we stirred and suddenly it erupted. What resulted was a long and intensive massive firefight. Air assets were made available as we needed them, and we couldn’t advance until we’d neutralised pockets in that hornets’ nest, and that’s what we did.

  ‘For an hour or more there was that massive, pitched battle,’ the OC continued. ‘Air, artillery and mortars were pounding the enemy positions, and back on the ground we still had troops in contact who needed water and ammo. We captured two-thirds of the village, and 4 Platoon were in the north trying to link up with the Czechs.

  ‘That was today’s battle.’ The OC paused. ‘Throughout all of this, the ‘‘what if” is could we have done anything to prevent Sandy’s death? The only way to have avoided it would have been not to do the mission. And bear in mind the worst-case scenario: losing more soldiers during the initial firefight, which would have made it harder to get out.’

  The OC took a thoughtful pause. ‘Then, we would have come back in on foot and hit all of what the enemy had prepared for us here. It would have been a modern-day Rorke’s Drift. We’d have been sucked in with no way out. We’d have been forced to fight our way out, taking massive casualties.

  ‘We may have thought we were up against a rag-tag enemy,’ he continued. ‘We are not. Their ferocity and their ability to coordinate fire is clear. They have front-line trenches with cleared arcs; reserve trenches set fifty metres back, with sentry positions out front with RPGs. Their tactic has been to hit us, engage, fall back and draw us in to an ambush-and-surround position. We’ve been very, very lucky today.’

  The OC gave orders that we were to consolidate our positions into all-round defence, and remain in Rahim Kalay that night. In the morning we would patrol out towards Adin Zai. And we would stay on the ground and dominate the territory.

  After the briefing Major Butt did a walk around the company’s positions. It took him two and a half hours, and he got to say a few words to every one of the men. He knew how that would boost their morale. He came back via our position, and Sticky doled him out a cup of coffee, which was the OC’s chosen brew.

  ‘Fantastic,’ he remarked, as he took a sip. ‘Just what I needed. Bloody fantastic, lads.’

  I glanced at my watch. It was 0200 hours. I’d been curled up on the dirt next to the Vector, dozing, my TACSAT propped against my ear. I had no air, but I was scanning whilst I kipped, just in case I got anything unexpectedly.

  We fully expected to get hit again that night, but I’d only get air if the enemy launched a full-on attack. In a way it was a good thing. I was totally exhausted, and all I wanted was to get my bracket down. As Butsy chatted away to the others, I drifted off into the sleep of the dead. Overnight, I kept getting woken by the odd crackle of gunfire, or the crunching explosion of grenades. I’d do a quick scan of the airwaves, but with no warplanes on station I’d drift off to sleep once more.

  Dozing fitfully in between the worst attacks, I shook myself awake proper at 0400. I had air for the company stand-to. I got a pair of A-10s, and had them flying low-level shows of force over our positions. That way, if the enemy were planning anything major they could see that we had Warthogs on hand to smash them.

  It was then that I learned just how fierce the fighting had been overnight. The OC described it as a night of ‘enemy in the wire’, with close-quarters fighting in the pitch darkness. Butsy hadn’t slept a wink as he’d kept doing the rounds of his lads to bolster their morale. The enemy had probed us from every direction, and the lads had spent the dark hours wired, and wondering from where next the enemy were going to try to hit us.

  One young soldier had told the OC about an enemy fighter who had simply refused to die. He’d shot the enemy fighter three times, but still the guy was trying to press home his attack. Eventually, the young lad had bayoneted him to death. It was clear the enemy were pumped up on drugs, for nothing else could have kept them going like that.

  After stand-to I had the A-10s ripped by a pair of F-15s, call signs Dude Zero Three and Dude Zero Four. The F-15 was fast becoming one of my platforms of choice, particularly after the way that lone pilot had performed during the previous day’s battle.

  I got chatting to the pilots, and it turned out that one was a woman. Emma proved to be a friendly type, as the American girls often are.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to a pretty lass in weeks,’ I told her. ‘What you wearing up there?’

  ‘I’m flying in my suspender set and bra, Widow Seven Nine. What you wearing down there?’

  ‘I’m minging,’ I told her, truthfully. ‘I smell like a damp dog. And I haven’t brushed my teeth for six days.’

  She laughed. ‘Gee – I guess that’s what I can smell from up here then.’

  The Intel coming down from the Rahim Kalay elders was that forty-one enemy had been killed, not to mention the wounded. Plus at least thirty-six enemy fighters were missing. We’d also taken out a full mortar team with mortar tube, and a further mortar team without the tube.

  As if to confirm what the elders were telling us, the F-15 pilots spotted scores of tractors on the village outskirts, hauling out the dead and injured. We let them go about their grim work unmolested.

  We would respect the enemy dead, and for sure they had enough of them right now.

  THIRTEEN

  THUNDER RUN

  Two days later I was back at FOB Price, en route to Camp Bastion. For the next week at least my war was over. I’d been ordered to return to the UK, for – of all things – an AIDS test.

  I was gutted to be leaving the 2 MERCIAN lads, especially as they were poised to take Adin Zai and occupy a swathe of the Green Zone. And I was pissed as hell to be leaving my FST, and handing over my JTAC role to a stand-in. But I had no option. Orders were orders.

  Two months earlier I’d managed to stab myself in the leg with a discarded needle. The enemy often drugged themselves up before battle, shooting up with heroin or amphetamines. Their positions were littered with syringes, and of all the places I’d chosen to take cover I landed on a druggie’s needle.

  I’d been just six days in theatre, and the soldiers of 42 Commando had been ordered to take Sangin town on foot. They’d been on their way back to the UK at the end of their tour, when they were told to do one more mission. I got embedded with the commando, as the JTAC for the Sangin operation.

  In briefings we were told this was going to be the biggest op of 42 Commando’s entire tour. I’d never done a live drop before – controlling aircraft with live ordnance over a battlefield. I guessed this was going to be my baptism of fire.

  Only three of us from the FST could go on the mission, and Sticky had drawn the short straw. We were embedded with Juliet Company, a bunch of kich-arse Commandos. There were 120 Marines in the company, and I was the JTAC in charge of the air. A lot of these lads were big, ugly, grizzled bastards, and I didn’t think they’d take kindly to me dropping a bomb on their mates by accident. One of the commando’s own JTACs came to have words with me. He was at the end of his Afghan deployment, and he was a qualified JTAC instructor.

  ‘Bommer, when we go out on this op you’re the JTAC heading it up,’ he told me. ‘Everything that’s going to happen you’re going to lead it. I’ll listen in, and only intervene if I have to. You need to find your feet and find them fast. You OK with that?’

  I swallowed hard
. ‘If there’s anything, can I ask you the question, boss?’

  He shook his grizzled head. ‘No, mate. I’ll step in if needed. I’m giving you your head, Bommer. You’ll do all right, and if you don’t I’ll be on to you.’

  So be it. I was in at the deep end.

  We drove up to Sangin via the desert. The night before the assault we laagered up in the open, just short of the 611, the main road into town. We had C Squadron of The Light Dragoons – my parent regiment – in Scimitar light tanks doing overwatch of the road, to stop the enemy from planting mines or IEDs, or setting ambushes. The enemy knew of our intentions, and they were coming to join the party. Half a dozen top Taliban commanders had arrived from their northern stronghold of Musa Qaleh, each bringing sixty to eighty fighters with them. We were two companies of Royal Marines – some 240 men – up against several hundred enemy fighters.

  The CO of 42 Commando gave us the final mission brief in our desert laager: ‘Secure Sangin centre through shock action, moving from inside to out to secure. Gain positions with or without force; deny enemy firing points. Hold all until relieved by Task Force Fury.’

  Task Force Fury was troops from the US 82nd Airborne’s 4th Combat Team. They would be inserted in a massive heli-borne

  operation to the west of Sangin, with us coming in from the east in a pincer movement. At the same time units of The Light Dragoons would move in from the open desert, conducting a highly visible feint, in an effort to fox the enemy.

  The CO finished his brief with these immortal words. ‘Not all of you will be coming out of Sangin’. That drove it home: there were going to be a few lads getting whacked in there.

  The airspace above Sangin had been formulated into a High Density Air Control Zone (HIDACZ), which was akin to an enormous ROZ broken down into individual sectors. We had a ‘king JTAC’ in control of the HIDACZ, and orchestrating the air from FOB Robinson. His call sign was Widow Seven Zero.

  I got the alert via Chris that our forward unit had spotted an enemy mortar team setting up under cover of darkness. I got a description of the target, then radioed for air.