Attack State Red

by Richard Kemp

  The gathering dusk erupted into a rippling carpet of red tracer. Sixteen GPMGs, two .50 cal heavy machine-guns and two grenade machine-guns opened fire from the vehicles waiting outside the FOB. They were joined by machine-guns from sentry posts all round the base.

  To Newton it looked like a scene from Star Wars.

  Ambush: 17 May 2007

  1

  When Aston got into FOB Robinson a few hours after Sergeant Nieves and the other casualties were evacuated from the desert, he spoke on the phone to Lieutenant Colonel Stuart Carver, who was at his headquarters in Camp Bastion. Aston briefed Carver on the events at Heyderabad, and on the minestrike that wounded four of his men. Carver confirmed B Company’s future tasking, beginning the following day.

  As a part of Operation Silver, the relief of Sangin in April, three patrol bases had been built in the town. These isolated and vulnerable outposts were manned by ANA soldiers supported by operational mentoring and liaison teams, or OMLTs, from The 1st Battalion The Grenadier Guards. The other military base in Sangin was the District Centre or DC, Governor Isatullah’s office and the location of A Company, The 1st Battalion The Worcestershire and Sherwood Forester Regiment. All four bases had been coming under daily attack by the Taliban over the previous few weeks. Carver wanted Aston to patrol the town, on foot and with his Vikings, to relieve the pressure on the beleaguered bases.

  Aston issued a warning order to B Company. The company command team would reconnoitre all the patrol bases and the DC the following day, to get a feel for the ground and to consult the local commanders on the situation. This would enable Aston to draw up a detailed plan for his subsequent company group patrol operation. The command team would be accompanied by 7 Platoon and Fire Support Group Bravo for security.

  The next morning, Thursday 17 May, Lieutenant George Seal-Coon, 7 Platoon commander, gave orders for the move round the patrol bases, which he had been tasked by Aston to command. At 1400 hours that afternoon, the recce group, with their security force, left FOB Robinson in six Vikings and four WMIKs. A short time later they pulled into the

  Map 6. Ambush

  most southerly of the Sangin patrol bases, Waterloo, on the outskirts of the town, 7 kilometres north of FOB Robinson. The column remained in the base for an hour while Aston and his recce group had discussions with the ANA commander and the OMLT leader. The 7 Platoon and FSG security force waited with their vehicles inside Waterloo.

  Sprawled on the roof of his BvS10 Viking troop-carrying vehicle, Private Josh Lee lit up one of the 2,000 Pine Lights his section had bought from the Afghans for twelve dollars.

  Over the low, throaty rumble of the Viking’s idling diesel engine, Lee heard the marine driver hammering at the vehicle’s tracks. He hadn’t seen this driver before. The marine had come over from another unit and was almost at the end of his tour in Afghanistan. He seemed dedicated to his vehicle like most of the marines, and was doing a ‘halt parade’, using the short time they were stopped to make sure the Viking was at peak performance.

  Lee was chatting with Private Ronnie Barker, who was sitting on top of the next-door Viking, looking over the walls beyond the base. Lee had always liked Barker and saw him as a good and dependable mate. Having heard how Barker had risked his life to get Mac the medic to safety the day before, he looked on him with a new level of respect.

  Ronnie said, ‘Someone told me hippies used to come out here from the UK in the sixties for the scenery and the drugs. I wouldn’t have bothered, be glad to get the hell out of here and back to the UK.’

  Hacking on one of his rough cigarettes and swatting flies away with his hand, Lee said, ‘Yeah, well, that’s students for you. Just wasters. And the scenery, it’s the same everywhere in this place. What a tip. Actually, reminds me a bit of Upton Park.’

  ‘Don’t start, Josh, or I’ll chuck you off that wagon. What scumbag team do you support anyway?’

  ‘I don’t support any team. I’d rather play sport than watch it. At least I can play football, unlike your West Ham mob, Wonnie my old mate.’

  Barker contemplated jumping across to Lee’s vehicle and shoving him on to the ground but decided it wasn’t worth the effort in this sweltering heat, so contented himself with flicking a v-sign instead.

  This was the company’s first time at Waterloo. Just the same as all the others, thought Lee, what a tip. A dusty compound surrounded by a Hesco Bastion wall punctuated by four or five sandbagged sangars. The single shabby building in the middle of the base was topped by the usual CT sangar – the control tower – bristling with weapons including a .50 calibre heavy machine-gun.

  Afghan soldiers were crouched cross-legged in every bit of shade, smoking, whispering to each other and eyeing the British soldiers and their vehicles. Others were sitting next to the sangars, chatting to their mates on stag. As always most of the Afghans were wearing green US-style camouflage combat suits, matching caps and flip flops.

  Ronnie nodded in the direction of Sangin, a kilometre away. ‘What do you reckon that’s like, mate? Everyone’s always on about it.’

  ‘I heard it’s been really badly smashed up, but it doesn’t look like it from here. Just like any other dump in Afghan. We’ll soon see, I expect.’

  Waterloo was perched high on top of a jagged rocky outcrop. The heavily mined dirt track running past the base and along the valley into southern Sangin was known as Route 611. Single-storey light-brown dusty Afghan compounds lined the road into town, all surrounded by mud walls at least 3 to 5 metres high.

  Lee glanced down through the hatch into the back of the vehicle. He could just about hear the slightly irritating sound of Prodigy’s ‘Firestarter’ coming from Private John Thrumble’s iPod speakers. Thrumble played it over and over, and Lee was pleased it was almost inaudible over the sound of the engines and the driver’s hammering at the running gear. The iPod speakers were the only true luxury the platoon had, and Thrumble guarded them with his life, occasionally lending them out to his pals and inspecting them closely when returned.

  Lee tossed his fag butt into the dust and, stepping across the metre-wide gap between the articulated Viking’s troop-carrying compartment and the front cab, said, ‘What’s going on then, Smethwick?’

  Lance Corporal Smethwick, the marine vehicle commander, was perched on top of the front cab, monitoring the radio. Smethwick and the Royal Anglians had hit it off straight away. At forty he was about the oldest man in the company group. He had an easy-going manner and was totally unflappable.

  Smethwick had experience from previous operations in Afghanistan and Iraq. A marine reservist, he was nicknamed ‘rubber dagger’ by the rest of the Viking Troop. Lee was amused that this tough Scouser was a car salesman back home in Liverpool.

  Smethwick said, ‘I think we’re off in a few minutes. The company commander’s almost finished doing the rounds. Better get a mouthful of this down you quick.’

  Another of Smethwick’s nicknames was ‘the brew king’, and he offered Lee a filthy mug, improvised from a plastic 81mm mortar casing.

  Pouring with sweat, Corporal Stu Parker, Lee’s section commander, appeared at the back of the vehicle. ‘Josh, chuck us a couple of bottles of water down, mate.’

  Lee stepped back across to his own hatch and passed down two dust-covered bottles of warm Evian from one of the cardboard boxes strapped on top of the wagon.

  ‘Cheers,’ shouted Parker, cursing the heat, by now almost unbearable, and nudging 60 degrees.

  As Parker half-drained a 1.5-litre bottle, Lance Corporal Steve Veal called from inside the vehicle, ‘Just come over the net – we’re moving. Mount up, lads. We’re going into Sangin.’

  Corporal Parker, wearing a brown T-shirt under his body armour, walked to the front cab, nudged Private Aaron ‘Troy’ McLure awake and handed him a bottle of Evian. McLure was sitting in the back seat, which was always allocated to the smallest man in the section as it was even more cramped than the other crew positions. And every time McLure got in it he we
nt straight to sleep, waking only when it was time to do something. A useful skill for any soldier.

  ‘Sorry to disturb your dreams, Troy, but even a potential SAS trooper like you needs to get a bit of hydration,’ said Parker.

  Lee dropped down through his hatch, balancing on the pile of brown metal ammo boxes on the vehicle floor so he had height to see and fire out. He pulled his Osprey body armour over his shoulders and strapped on his Mark 6 combat helmet. He tied his Minimi light machine-gun to the steel rail running round the hatch, using the weapon’s nylon sling. This technique stopped the gun dropping over the vehicle side – and the severe embarrassment, not to mention loss of firepower that would follow – when the driver unexpectedly jammed on the brakes, swerved round a hairpin bend or dropped the tracks into a particularly deep rut.

  Wedging himself into position in the hatchway, Lee gripped the Minimi with one hand and held on to the side of the vehicle with the other, braced for a nightmare ride down into Sangin. He knew that, whatever happened on the way, he would be hanging on for dear life.

  Lee had volunteered to be top cover for his section’s Viking. Lance Corporal Smethwick, as vehicle commander, was in the forward gun turret with his GPMG. In addition to commanding the Viking his job was to observe forward for enemy and look out for any sign of mines dug into the track or of improvised explosive devices concealed beside the road. His gun would always be cocked and ready to fire immediately in defence of the vehicle until the crew could debus and deal with the enemy on foot.

  Smethwick also had to watch for civilian cars getting too close to the Viking as they moved along Helmand’s dangerous roads. Many US and allied vehicles in Iraq had been destroyed, and their crews killed, by suicide car bombs detonating next to them as they drove along. The same had also occurred in Kabul and elsewhere in Afghanistan on a number of occasions. Thankfully, the British in Helmand had not yet been attacked in this way, but they were always on the alert for the possibility. They would first wave off a vehicle getting too close, then fire warning shots, and if necessary were ready to shoot directly at a car or truck to keep it away.

  As top cover Lee had the same role. Smethwick would decide which side to cover at any given time, depending on the ground, the threat and the actions of other vehicles in the convoy. He would swing his gun right or left to cover the main threat area. Lee would then switch to cover the opposite side, scanning for enemy activity.

  Although Smethwick was in an exposed position, he was protected by a steel armoured shield. Lee, as top cover, was even more vulnerable, with no protection at all. To observe effectively he had to expose much of his upper torso, shielded only by his helmet and body armour.

  Even though top cover was the most dangerous position there were advantages to the job. You got to see out, and every infantryman wants to know what’s going on around him. It was also better than being in the Viking’s dark, oven-like cabins. Designed for a crew of eight, Lee’s Viking had seats for only seven as the communications equipment took up so much room. And most of the rest of the space was full of ammo boxes, so the soldiers in the back were jammed in like sardines, knees virtually around their ears. The air con almost certainly wouldn’t be working, or not properly anyway – that was pretty much a given. And for Lee an added bonus was knowing that he didn’t have to put up with the Prodigy stuff that would be blaring out from Thrumble’s speakers, just about audible above the roar of the engine and the crunching and juddering of the tracks.

  With a loud groan and a bang the back door slammed shut. The Viking’s 5.9-litre Cummins turbo diesel fired fully into life, and the vehicle lurched forward, following the lead wagons in the column out of the front gate. As they passed through an Afghan soldier lazily waved his AK47, complete with a bright red flower in the muzzle.

  Lee caught the wistful eye of a heavily bearded OMLT corporal standing near by. He looked as if he wished he was coming with them. Lee understood why. He wouldn’t want to be stuck in this vulnerable and frequently attacked outpost with only a couple of other British soldiers and a whole bunch of Afghan troops; separated from the enemy by just 2 metres of Hesco.

  Moving out of the base, the convoy formed up into its planned order of march for the short journey to Sangin DC. The two FSG WMIKs, equipped with .50 cal machine-guns and GPMGs, moved out first to secure a vulnerable point at the start of the route. They would later slot back into the column. Seal-Coon’s Viking led the main group of vehicles. Behind him was Lee’s Wagon, followed by the platoon sergeant’s vehicle, then Aston’s and the company sergeant major’s Vikings. In all, there were five Vikings and two WMIKs.

  As the column turned left and trundled haltingly down the steep slope towards route 611, Lee glanced back. Lance Corporal Dean Bailey, top cover sentry in the vehicle behind, threw him a cheerful thumbs-up. Bailey had volunteered to be top cover in the Viking that contained Platoon Sergeant Michael Woodrow, a section of Royal Engineers and a huge quantity of explosives and demolition equipment. A determined and professional infantryman and a skilled sniper, Bailey wanted to get to know the terrain for future sniper operations that were being considered to help protect Waterloo and the other bases in and around Sangin.

  Bailey went to school in South Woodham Ferrers, Essex, where he was suspended three times for fighting and an endless string of other misdemeanours. But after a few unskilled jobs he had joined the Army in 2003 when he was nineteen – and excelled. His long-suffering teachers at Sir William De Ferrers School would have been astonished to learn that Bailey had studied hard and become one of the few who passed the demanding sniper course at the first attempt. Only a few months later he attended and passed an NCOs’ leadership course and was by now well on his way to what promised to be a highly successful Army career. A talented footballer and, like Barker, a dedicated West Ham supporter, Bailey described himself as ‘the most handsome man in the battalion, if not the Army’, while his mates called him a ‘pretty boy’ and, with some jealousy, ‘a real ladies’ man’.

  Lee acknowledged Bailey’s thumbs-up with a nod and a smile and turned to cover forward left as Smethwick swung his gun off to the right. Moments later, as the column of vehicles turned on to Route 611, Lee took in the rusting hulks of several Soviet armoured personnel carriers, the chilling reminder of a mujahideen ambush in the mid-1980s that had cost a Russian motor rifle platoon their lives.

  The B Company column now entered the southern outskirts of Sangin, an untidy collection of light-brown single-storey flat-roofed buildings. This was the poorer section of town. One or two were shops, their façades protected by iron shutters.

  The dusty streets were completely empty as the vehicles moved northwards into a stretch of larger two-storey buildings – a sign of greater prosperity. The road was lined on either side with 3-metre-high mud walls.

  Lee’s Viking passed an area of open ground to the left, dropping down towards a woodline in the valley. As the WMIKs in front picked their way along the heavily potholed road, two local men appeared from nowhere and pushed a rusty old black Nissan into the path of Lee’s Viking, forcing the vehicle across to the right side of the road.

  Lee had barely begun to wonder what was going on when the first RPG smashed into the top of Dean Bailey’s Viking.

  2

  Lee turned and saw Bailey engulfed in flames. He just had time to catch the terrified look on his mate’s face before Bailey threw himself down into the Viking’s cab. Bailey tore off his burning helmet and body armour and seconds later was back up and in the fight, firing his SA80 at Taliban swarming over the compound roofs.

  ‘Three enemy left…’ In the forward turret of Lee’s Viking, the marine gunner swung his GPMG to engage.

  Lee dropped a gunman on the wall 40 metres away then heard a loud thumping noise from the open ground off to the left. A Soviet-designed Degtjarev DShK 12.7mm anti-aircraft machine-gun started to hose down the column, spitting out bullets at the rate of 125 a minute. Red tracer streaked in behind his vehicle.
/>   A GPMG gunner in one of the Vikings silenced the DShK with a long, withering blast.

  By now all ten B Company vehicles were engaged with the enemy.

  There was chaos inside Bailey’s burning Viking. Sniper Teddy Ruecker thought they had hit a mine. Then he heard the order, ‘Get out, get out, get out,’ from the commander.

  He shouted, ‘Everyone out of the vehicle,’ and booted open the heavy armoured door. He grabbed Bailey’s leg and yelled up, ‘Deano, get out mate – we’re going – now…’

  A second PG7VL 93mm high-explosive warhead spiralled from its launcher at 295 metres per second and slammed into the top of the Viking. Bailey had not made it out of the turret.

  Capable of penetrating 50 centimetres of armour, the rocket exploded next to him, ripping off most of his left deltoid and triceps and almost tearing away his arm. The shock wave from the explosion punctured his lung. Shrapnel slashed through his mouth and into the back of his head, fracturing his lower jaw on the way. The blaze on top of the vehicle melted his right hand. As he dropped through the hatch into the smoke-filled crew compartment, a 7.62mm AK47 bullet tore into his chest.

  Ruecker escaped with Sergeant Woodrow and eight engineers, leaving their explosive demolition charges behind. The engineers dived into cover against a 3-metre wall as Woodrow raked their attackers with his SA80.

  Another Taliban heavy machine-gun opened up from the roof of a mosque, and an RPG exploded right next to them. Richie Barke, the platoon’s 51mm mortar man, was hurled to the ground, bleeding from multiple shrapnel wounds. Woodrow gave him a fierce grin of encouragement as he turned his attention to Barke’s attackers.

  Josh Lee blazed away with his Minimi at RPG-wielding Taliban to their right. Woodrow screamed, ‘Cover us while we move up to your wagon – can you see them? Are you hitting the bastards?’