by Richard Kemp
‘Ugly’ was the callsign indicator used by the British Apache attack helicopters, and ‘Three Zero’ was Seal-Coon’s 7 Platoon. It sounded as if the Apache had cut down the enemy who were moving out of the compound to reposition themselves.
Seal-Coon moved past Parker’s section, heading back the way they had come. ‘Hi, Corporal P, I’m going to the OC. He has called for a face-to-face. I’ll be back shortly then we should know what’s happening next. All your men OK?’
As Seal-Coon walked quickly back to meet Aston, he heard ferocious gunfire a few hundred metres to the north. Second Lieutenant Howes’s 5 Platoon were under attack. Howes was out in the open and exposed with Private Scott Corless. Fire poured in from what seemed like every direction at the same time. Howes and Corless flung themselves down. They crawled back towards the rest of the platoon, keeping as low and moving as fast as they could. They were both exhausted after advancing all morning in the almost unbearable heat, but adrenalin, and the torrent of bullets, made them forget that. Corless was ahead of Howes, and Howes saw bullets slicing right next to his head as he turned and called, ‘Come on, boss, keep going. We’ve got to keep going.’
The rest of the platoon, in cover, were furiously returning fire at the enemy with every weapon they had, and some of their bullets were licking close to Howes and Corless.
Finally the two made it to a ditch occupied by one of the sections and rolled over the parapet into the muddy, waist-deep water. Corless, blowing hard and dripping with sweat after his desperate crawl, pulled himself straight back up into a fire position and began shooting back at the enemy.
Also breathing hard, pouring sweat and standing in the dirty water, Howes was on the radio, checking his sections, which were widely dispersed. They were all now under enemy fire from three sides.
Next to Howes was the surreal sight of Taff, a huge engineer and former Welsh Guardsman, who had just been CASEVACed with heat exhaustion from one of the forward sections. He was standing in the water, shirt off, and holding in his left hand an intravenous drip that had been inserted into his arm by a medic just before the firing started. With his right hand, he was firing his rifle, supported against the bank. An RPG exploded in the bank between Taff and Private Allan Sheppard. A lump of shrapnel hit Sheppard in the eye and he was CASEVACed back for medical treatment.
Bullets and RPGs continued to land horribly close to Howes and his men. A cascade of tree branches and leaves dropped on to them, cut down by enemy fire. Despite the closeness and the intensity of the fire, every man had his head up and was shooting back. Howes was impressed. For most, this was their first serious contact. All of them, even the youngsters who had only recently arrived in the battalion, were hungry for the fight, determined to give back to the Taliban more than the Taliban were giving out.
Right and left, Howes’s other sections were sending blistering fire back into the enemy positions. AT4 missiles were fired at the compound walls, but they had little effect: massive blasts but no penetration of the thick, baked mud. Howes shouted, ‘UGLs, try to get UGLs in through the loopholes!’
In response to Howes’s order, many 40mm UGL high-explosive grenades were fired, but very few riflemen achieved the accuracy needed to send them through the tiny apertures in the compound walls. Private Thomas Cox was the exception. At twenty-six, Cox was one of the oldest privates in the company, and one of the best. With astonishing accuracy he succeeded in blasting at least six of the grenades in from 70 metres. 5 Platoon’s morale was already sky high. But everyone got a boost when they heard the loud, muffled blasts inside the compounds, followed by clouds of smoke and dust forced back out through the windows, following each of Cox’s crack shots. They could only imagine what became of the fighters caught inside.
Cox’s accuracy was matched by his bravery. Bullets scythed through the air either side of him when he stood up, levelled his rifle and fired the under-slung grenade launcher – again and again.
The Taliban fire reduced but did not stop, and 5 Platoon’s return fire continued with the same aggression and intensity as it had begun.
Company Sergeant Major Newton appeared from nowhere behind Howes’s position, 7 metres away. Above the noise of gunfire, the Sergeant Major yelled urgently, at the top of his voice, ‘Mr Howes, Mr Howes – on me.’
Using the military signal, he placed his hand on top of his helmet and then shook his fist, indicating, come to me quickly.
Responding to the Sergeant Major’s call, Howes pulled himself out of the ditch, dodged the bullets and crawled on his belt buckle to the hole Newton was standing in. ‘What’s up, Sar’nt Major?’
‘Have you got any cigarettes, sir?’
‘What are you talking about, Sar’nt Major?’
‘I just needed a fag, sir, thought you might have one.’
‘No. I haven’t got any fags. You’ve made me crawl across that for cigarettes?’
‘Oh sorry, sir, I didn’t know it’d be a big deal.’
Howes looked at him incredulously. Recently out of Sandhurst, as an officer cadet he was used to being ragged by warrant officers and senior NCOs on the staff there, but in the middle of a pitched battle…
Newton laughed and said, ‘No, I’m only joking. The company commander wants to see you.’
Newton led Howes back to Aston, positioned near the Vikings on the towpath. Aston was standing with the men of his Tac HQ and Seal-Coon, who grinned and nodded at Howes as he arrived.
‘Glad you could find the time to join us, sprog. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you,’ said Aston, allowing himself a moment of humour, but knowing full well what Howes had just been through. ‘Your boys OK?’
‘Yeah, they’re fine. Doing well.’
Aston spoke to the group. ‘OK, fellas. I’ll be brief. Because we haven’t got a lot of time. 6 Platoon are in a compound at Objective 8 and surrounded by Taliban. They can’t get out. I ordered Dave Broomfield to break out and link up with 7 Platoon. Sergeant Browning tried to lead them out but apparently he got blown off his feet by several RPGs as he came out of the compound gate. I think he’s pretty much OK. Would take quite a bit to damage Ben Browning.’ He smiled. ‘Anyway, they’re penned into the compound, but they’re still trying to get out. We have to assume they won’t be able to. We’ll have to smash our way through the compounds between here and 6 Platoon and bust them out. We’re at present in contact from three sides so we need to break contact first. 7 Platoon have got into that compound, and are holding there right now.’ He gestured to the north, where Seal-Coon’s men were waiting for orders. ‘Ben. Note I am not calling you sprog. Ben, you will withdraw your platoon from where they are now and push through alongside 7 Platoon. You will then break into the compound just beyond them. Then both platoons will echelon through each other, compound by compound, until you can link up with 6 Platoon and break them out of there. I will move right behind the lead platoon and control your movement.
‘I have air on task now. Fortunately the last Apache produced the goods. Unlike the one that was here before, who just held us up for an hour. But we won’t get much chance to use air as this is so close, and we can’t afford any friendly fire. The Taliban are doing a good enough job without us helping them.’ He smiled again. ‘We also have artillery and mortars if we need them. And the Vikings will give as much support as they can from the track. Just call them up if you need to use them. I will do the same if I see an opportunity. The FSG can’t help us. They can’t get eyes on into here let alone fire anything, but they’re still pinning the enemy into HBK.
‘That’s it. I need momentum and I need speed. Ben, let me know as soon as you’ve broken contact in the north and your platoon’s moving. You have ten minutes at most, do you think you can make it?’
‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ Howes said and, without waiting for the inevitable follow-up comment from Aston, ran straight back towards the firing around his platoon.
‘Just get it done, Ben,’ shouted Aston after him. He grinned. He lik
ed to see a bit of urgency.
Despite his calmness and brusque humour, Aston was only too aware of the dire situation 6 Platoon were in. They were surrounded and couldn’t break out. With the resistance the Taliban were putting up throughout Deh Adan Khan, it could be a long time before the rest of B Company fought their way to them.
He wondered whether the Taliban could reinforce in 6 Platoon’s area and close in to overwhelm them. They certainly knew and understood the ground well enough to be able to get very close in without being spotted, and there were probably tunnels galore all round the compounds.
On the other hand, he knew 6 Platoon was prepared and should be able to defend their compound against an enemy assault. He had Apaches up which would hopefully identify and break up any significant Taliban reinforcement.
Aston reflected, ‘should be able to…’ and ‘hopefully…’ Not good enough. He did indeed need speed and momentum. Before something terrible happened to the encircled 6 Platoon…
13
Pouring down a massive weight of fire, and leapfrogging back by sections, Howes and his men broke contact with the enemy to the north, then pulled back to the area of 7 Platoon’s compound. It was grindingly hard work, down, fire, up, move back, down, fire. Wading streams, crawling through the dirt, struggling through thick vegetation. The men were tired and dripping sweat.
Quickly Howes briefed his section commanders, ‘We are breaking into that compound. Going in red. Entry point is the left-hand side on the corner. We will use the ditch we’re in to crawl up. Corporal Thorne, 2 Section will break in, I will be behind you, followed by 1 Section then 3 Section. Any questions? No. Brief the guys and let’s go. Corporal T, move as soon as you’re ready.’
Thorne led his section through the filthy ditch towards the compound, accompanied by two engineers, one of whom was Taff, now without his drip.
The engineers prepared a bar-mine, inserting a detonator and safety fuze into the explosive. It was actually half of an L9 plastic anti-tank mine. Just over half a metre in length and containing 4 kilograms of RDX/TNT explosive, this charge was often used by the Royal Engineers for explosive entry in Afghanistan.
With two of Thorne’s riflemen providing close protection, Taff and his mate raced to the side of the building and set up the mine against the wall. They could hear voices inside the compound. Taff lit the forty-second fuze with a windproof match, then the engineers and cover men dashed into a dip in the ground and pressed their fingers into their ears. Thorne was 10 metres off, but the intense blast and pressure shocked and deafened him and sucked his breath away. He had never before experienced such an enormous explosion, intensified by the high compound walls on either side. Everything was shrouded in a massive cloud of thick dust.
Immediately, Privates Jason Tower and Ian McIlroy rushed to the hole in the wall, barely able to see through the blinding dust. McIlroy turned to look at Thorne for a thumbs-up. He couldn’t see him through the dust so, rather than risk wasting time, hurled in an L109 grenade and pressed himself back against the outer wall. Three seconds later the grenade exploded, blasting out shrapnel and kicking up more dust in every direction. McIlroy swung in front of the hole and fired his SA80. After one round the rifle jammed.
Shouting ‘Stoppage,’ he hurled himself face-down. This was second nature. They had trained for it over and again, and now it was working. A stoppage at this critical moment must not cause any kind of pause in the momentum of the assault. Speed and shock were critical in killing the enemy and avoiding own casualties.
Tower ran straight over his back, firing twenty rapid, single shots into the room as he went. He moved right and pressed himself against the wall. Corporal Thorne, also running in across McIlroy’s back, was right behind, straight in and left.
The remainder of the section poured through, each trampling over the hapless McIlroy. Once the last man was inside, McIlroy pulled himself to his feet, bruised and battered, with cuts to his face. Feeling as though he had just done five rounds with Amir Khan, he rushed into the room, knelt in a corner, cleared the stoppage and reloaded his rifle.
Thorne had already started detailing the two-man assault teams off to check each of the rabbit warren of small rooms inside the compound. As they entered, each team hurled in a grenade and followed up with rapid fire.
After half an hour the section had cleared every room and a small orchard within the compound. They found no one. The fighters who had fired at them from these buildings must have departed as soon as the bar-mine exploded.
The Taliban were employing their usual modus operandi – shoot from a compound or the area near by, try to draw the soldiers in and kill them as they approach, then escape along well-prepared rat-runs to start shooting from another position. The network of compounds, surrounded by high walls, and the dense vegetation of the Green Zone, made these tactics extremely effective. Only if the Taliban could be taken by surprise or caught out in the open was it possible to kill them.
The minute Howes reported over the company net, ‘Compound clear,’ Seal-Coon pushed 7 Platoon forward into the next one.
Corporal Parker’s section led the assault. His engineers blasted through the wall with a half bar-mine, tearing out lumps of solid-baked mud and hurling huge clouds of dust and smoke in every direction.
Privates Foster and McLure, Parker’s lead assault team, each had an L109 high-explosive grenade to shred any fighters immediately inside. The two men were about to fling the grenades in, but the dust began to clear and they were horrified by what they saw inside.
In the same instant, both soldiers screamed ‘Stop – stop – stop!’ in a desperate attempt to halt the attack.
Foster and McLure entered the courtyard, weapons in the shoulder, fingers on triggers, scanning through their sights. Nine women, several young children and an old man sat in terrified silence. Holding their hands up to stop the bullets they expected, they had the look of people who were about to die.
These were the first civilians the soldiers had seen since entering the Green Zone. Once they were sure there were no armed fighters in the courtyard or adjoining rooms, Foster and McLure each held up a hand and forced smiles, trying to reassure the locals that they were not going to kill them.
Parker moved in, followed by Seal-Coon, who told his interpreter to talk to the people, calm them down and question them on enemy activity. Foster and McLure were horrified and shaking. Both were more than willing to close with and kill the Taliban, but what they had almost done simply did not bear thinking about. McLure nodded agreement as Foster said to Parker, ‘We nearly killed them. Thank God we saw them before we chucked the grenades in. I couldn’t live with myself if I’d killed those old women and those kids, or that old bloke. We really scared them too. Even that makes me feel bad.’
As Foster spoke Parker heard the company signaller’s voice through his earpiece. Naylor was again relaying reports from the Apaches overhead. ‘All stations this is Two One Alpha. From JTAC. Ugly callsigns have identified four to five enemy moving in the open 300 metres to the north-east of callsign Three Zero’s forward location. Ugly callsigns engaging now with 30mm. Out.’
14
Lieutenant Dave Broomfield’s 6 Platoon had made several valiant efforts to break through the Taliban fighting positions that encircled their compound, but had not succeeded. They had other problems too. In the oppressive and debilitating 50-degree heat, the remainder of the company had received water resupplies from the Vikings shadowing their movement through the Green Zone. Despite that, two soldiers had gone down with heat exhaustion, an enemy in some cases even deadlier than the Taliban. But 6 Platoon had run out of water some time ago and could not be resupplied.
Corporal Joel Adlington noticed one of his soldiers had a glazed look in his eyes. Private Josh Hill was the youngest man in the battalion. He was eighteen, but looked more like fourteen. Having trained at the Army Apprentice College, Harrogate, and the Infantry Training Centre, Catterick, he joined the Royal Anglians just
before the tour began. He had settled in quickly and was performing well in Afghanistan. Adlington was impressed by the bravery he had shown so far on Silicon, and by his determination to get the job done and never let down his mates. Now he was shaking and looking pale.
Adlington said, ‘How do you feel, Hill?’
‘Fine, thanks, Corporal.’
‘No you don’t,’ said Adlington, ‘you look terrible. Sit down there in the shade by the wall.’
They were outside in the compound’s open courtyard. Private Jamie Muley, a half-Turkish soldier from Essex, came over to help. They stripped off Hill’s assault vest and body armour. Adlington had a drop of water left and made him sip it. He said to Muley, ‘Go and get some water from the well, bring it back here and start pouring it on his head and his clothes.’
He undid Hill’s belt, unbuttoned his trousers and pulled up his T-shirt to let air in. Then he removed his boots and socks. Muley came back and dowsed him with well-water, soaking his hair, T-shirt and combat trousers.
Despite this Hill was deteriorating fast. His eyes started rolling, and his shaking became more severe. The platoon sergeant, Ben Browning, came across with Lieutenant Broomfield. Browning said, ‘Muley, sit behind him and prop him up. He needs to be half sitting. Keep pouring water on his hair and down the back of his neck. Talk to him, keep him with us.’
He ruffled Hill’s hair, ‘All right, mate? How do you feel?’
Hill groaned quietly but couldn’t speak. Then he started panting loudly and shaking more vigorously. Broomfield and Browning knew how serious this could get. Hill was suffering from heat exhaustion. His body temperature had risen from a normal 37 degrees to around 38 degrees or higher. If he could be stabilized he would be fine. But if heat exhaustion progressed to heat stroke he could be dead in minutes.