Attack State Red

by Richard Kemp

Lee gave a brief thumbs-up.

  Ruecker dashed into a nearby alleyway to escape the stream of automatic fire, straight into a black-bearded Taliban with a ragged turban who was celebrating one of the hits on the Viking by loosing off his AK47 into the air. He wore an old Russian chest rig for his magazines. An RPG rocket launcher lay at his feet.

  As a Sniper Number One, in addition to an Accuracy International .338 rifle, Ruecker carried a Browning pistol, which he drew and fired into the man’s gut and shoulder – then eleven more times as the fighter scrabbled on the deck for his AK47.

  Ruecker cursed himself for firing so many rounds, quickly reloaded and sprinted back to Woodrow and the engineers, now desperately climbing into the back of the vehicle as Lee blasted away with his Minimi to keep the enemy’s heads down.

  Bailey wasn’t there.

  Ruecker shouted, ‘Where’s Deano? Where is he? I’m going back to get him, I’m not leaving him.’

  Inside Lee’s Viking, fourteen soldiers piled into a cab designed for eight.

  Lee saw another fighter down an alleyway to the rear right of the Viking, levelling an RPG launcher. He gave him a burst from the Minimi and watched him drop. He swung towards yet another group on a distant rooftop, and his gun jammed. ‘Stoppage,’ he yelled. ‘Pass us a gat, quick.’ He dropped the Minimi into the back of the wagon.

  He looked down and suddenly realized he was balancing on the helmeted head of Richie Barke, covered in blood from his shrapnel wounds. Neither of them had a choice. The long-suffering Barke somehow managed a grin as Woodrow passed up his SA80 and collected full mags of ammunition from the troops inside the Viking.

  At the front of the column, Seal-Coon’s vehicle was getting hit by heavy smallarms fire. From within his cab, 60 metres ahead he saw a Taliban fighter armed with an RPG and another with an AK. They ducked through the large blue doors of a compound. Over the intercom he yelled a target indication to Corporal Fisher, on the GPMG above.

  The RPG gunner, wearing a blue kurta, reappeared and levelled his missile launcher, pointing it directly at Seal-Coon. Seal-Coon could see his face. Everything went into slow motion as he thought, Sixty metres, almost point blank, he can’t miss. Fisher swivelled his GPMG on to the fighter, pressed the trigger and – nothing. ‘Stoppage,’ he yelled, as he yanked the cocking lever back to clear it. But the fighter had seen the gun turn on him, and Seal-Coon saw the panic on his face as he fired the missile. Seal-Coon braced for the impact – perhaps his last few moments on earth, but the rocket streaked straight over the top of the Viking, just above the gunner’s head.

  Sitting there, Seal-Coon felt impotent. He wanted to get out and fight on his feet, to shoot the fighter who had just fired the RPG. But bullets were slamming into the vehicle, and that would have been suicidal. He watched the fighter with his RPG scrabble to try to get back through the compound doors, but Fisher, the gunner, had cleared his stoppage and ripped the man’s body open with a long stream of 7.62 mm tracer.

  Private Ronnie Barker was top cover in the rear cab of Seal-Coon’s Viking. Taliban fighters, carrying AK47s and PKM machine-guns, were moving towards the vehicles, trying to get close. Barker cut down several with his Minimi and sent others diving for cover. He got through 100 bullets in the first few seconds and shouted down for more ammo. Seventy-five metres away, to his rear, standing next to a building, he saw another RPG gunner taking aim. The fighter just got his RPG launcher on to the shoulder when Barker fired a burst of twenty rounds, driving him into the ground.

  Barker looked round and saw one of Snow’s gunners firing forward, past the Viking. Snow had spotted several motorbikes, each with two armed riders, heading down the road towards them. Reinforcements. Barker watched excitedly as each of the five motorbikes was hit, crashing off the track or bursting into flames.

  Behind Barker’s Viking, pistol in hand, Ruecker ran the 70-metre-long killing zone, on a mission to find Dean Bailey. He was knocked off his feet by the blast of an RPG which exploded against the turret of Major Aston’s Viking, wounding the top cover, Marine McNeil. The marine screamed and held his hands to his face, one eye torn from its socket, then fell from the top of his vehicle. Aston dived out and grabbed him. As he moved, a second RPG scored a direct hit, exploding on the back of the Viking.

  With the marine’s blood spurting all over him, Aston pressed a field dressing on to his shattered face. Sergeant Major Newton’s Viking had pulled forward, beyond Aston’s. Newton, seeing what had happened, ran back and dragged the wounded marine into his vehicle.

  As Newton was about to get back into his cab he noticed that the rear section of Aston’s Viking was ablaze, set alight by the second impact. He thought, The whole thing’s going up any second. He grabbed the fire extinguisher he kept beside him in the vehicle and raced back to put out the flames. Bullets were flying all round the two vehicles, but Newton ignored them as he worked the extinguisher over the fire, managing to get it out in a few seconds. Somehow he got back to his own vehicle unscathed. Talk about commander’s wings, he thought as he flung the armoured door shut behind him, wondering how on earth he had survived.

  Ruecker reached Bailey’s burning Viking. Thick black and green smoke filled the crew compartment and a river of fire flowed down the road from it. He felt his way to the back and glimpsed his mate inside, face down, covered in blood and oil. Around him bullets were cooking off from the heat.

  Company doctor Major Andrew Tredget appeared beside Ruecker. Bailey was coughing up blood. The pair grabbed him and dragged him out. Ruecker’s fist entered Bailey’s exposed rib-cage. Almost out of his mind with the horror of the last few minutes, Ruecker screamed, ‘He’s my mate. My hands were in his chest. Oh my God…’

  Somehow Ruecker and Tredget got Bailey back to Newton’s vehicle but dropped him just short as they were caught by the shockwave of a further RPG impact. They picked up his limp body, slippery with blood, and pushed him into the jam-packed crew compartment. The doc squeezed in beside him.

  There was no room for Ruecker.

  He nodded in resignation as the door closed. On his own again, Ruecker ran back through the fire and the bullets.

  Ruecker, utterly exhausted and covered in blood and sweat, made it to Lee’s wagon. Inside, the troops started trying to treat him, but he screamed, ‘It’s Deano’s blood – not mine. I’m not injured.’

  At that point Ruecker was hit by battle-shock. He started shaking uncontrollably and crying. Thrumble held his hands and said, ‘Teddy, it’s OK, mate. You’re OK. We’re about to move out of here. We’re all with you, mate.’

  3

  Sergeant Major Ivan Snow had ordered his WMIKs 50 metres forward, beyond the head of the column. He knew the enemy would have deployed cut-offs forward of the killing area, to mow down anybody trying to escape.

  Just as Snow predicted, two fighters appeared, blasting automatic fire from AK47s at the hip. Screaming into his radio, ‘Engaging two enemy forward,’ he squeezed the trigger of his GPMG, killing one instantly. The other ran 40 metres into a garage. Colour Sergeant Stevie Neal sent in a volley of bombs from his grenade machine-gun, killing the fleeing man and setting the entire building alight.

  Sergeant Major Newton came on the net. ‘Hello, Zero Alpha, Zero Alpha, this is Copper Three Three Alpha. I’ve got one times T One casualty in my wagon. Must evacuate immediately.’

  He was calling the company commander for instructions, but got no reply. It was the same old problem, the one that had caused so much trouble in Heyderabad the day before – radios never work when you need them most.

  Snow stepped down from his WMIK and walked the 75 metres back through the killing zone to the company commander’s Viking, leaving Neal and his vehicle crews to cover the front of the column.

  Aston, drenched in Marine McNeil’s blood, swung open the armoured door of his Viking. Ignoring the bullets scything through the air around him, Snow shouted, ‘Sir, I’m holding forward OK, doesn’t look like too many more enemy up there. The company
sergeant major’s been trying to get you on the net. He’s got a T One that needs evacuating quick.’

  ‘OK, thanks, Sergeant Major. We’re going to head back the way we came, back to FOB Rob. Who knows what’s ahead? Could be another ambush or roadside IEDs. We know the way back better than the way forward, and FOB Rob is more secure than Sangin DC to get the casualties out. Try to move further forward to cover us as we turn. I reckon the best place is that garage you lot have just trashed…’

  Snow walked back to his WMIK as Newton finalized a radio head check between vehicles. It was critical that the company didn’t leave anyone to the mercy of the Taliban.

  Snow relayed Aston’s orders to all vehicles then told his driver to push forward to the bend in the road and go firm. ‘Get into the best cover you can so I can fire straight ahead and right. Stevie Neal can move up behind us and cover the left.’

  4

  David Broomfield, now promoted to captain, was acting as ops officer in FOB Rob, monitoring the company’s operational activity and providing the communications link between B Company and Carver’s battle group HQ at Camp Bastion, about 50 kilometres to the south-east. The commander of B Company’s 6 Platoon had hoped for a quiet spell of duty after the nightmare of the previous day.

  He was in the company ops room, a baking-hot steel freight container surrounded by Hesco blocks which gave it immediate protection against the blast of rocket or mortar attack. The ops room was positioned in the north-east corner of FOB Robinson, within a small British compound known as the ‘Snake Pit’. Above the ops room was the support sangar – a high tower armed with machine-guns and surveillance equipment. He sat at a folding wooden table with a paperback and a mug of revolting coffee. His plastic chair was so hot it felt as if it might melt. Beside him one signaller monitored the company net, and another the battle group. The ops room runner and brew-boy dozed fitfully in the corner. Even though the room had been swept a few hours earlier, everything was again covered in a thin film of dust.

  Broomfield’s mind had wandered to the Andes, where he had spent a year climbing before joining the Army, when he heard Captain Dave Robinson’s voice over the company net. ‘FOB Rob, this is Copper Two Two Alpha – contact, ambush, wait out.’

  The ops room switched to alert mode, the signallers poised to record every detail so Broomfield could organize the necessary support.

  Seconds later one of the sentries reported on the base security net, ‘This is Sangar One. I can see a huge pile of smoke over Sangin. Something big is happening down there. I can hear explosions. Many explosions…’

  Broomfield hit the intercom to the support tower. ‘Tower, stand to, stand to. Look in the direction of Sangin and report.’

  As the tower confirmed, Dave Robinson came back on the company net. ‘Fob Rob, Fob Rob, this is Copper Two Two Alpha. Reference contact, we have one times T One casualty, we are taking heavy fire from multiple firing points. We have a vehicle burning. Wait out.’

  Broomfield stood the company medics to, ready to receive casualties. He told 5 Platoon to get out of their sunbathing gear, ready to storm into Sangin and help in a rescue. Sentry posts reported more smoke and continuing explosions.

  Broomfield connected with Captain Phil Moxey, the battle group operations officer at Bastion, on the secure Brent phone. ‘Phil, the company is being hit in Sangin. Looks like we’ve got at least one times T One casualty and a vehicle on fire. Can you send the MERT here right now? Let me know when they’re in the air.’

  The medical emergency response team consisted of an HC2 Chinook heavy-lift helicopter with a medical crew equipped for casualty evacuation and capable of surgery in mid-air. The twin-rotored chopper also had door gunners, defences against enemy missiles, radar warning systems and surveillance equipment, and two WAH-64 Apache Longbow attack helicopters – armed with sixteen Hellfire missiles and a 30mm cannon – as escorts.

  Everyone in the ops room was thinking the same thing. Was it a close friend who’d been hit? They put themselves in the shoes of their mates on the ground. And it didn’t feel good.

  ‘FOB Rob, this is Copper Two Two Alpha. We have to get the casualties out. We’re abandoning the burning vehicle and pulling back to your location now.’

  5

  In the back of the company sergeant major’s Viking, Captain Dave Robinson was cradling a man’s pulped head in his hands as he spoke to Broomfield on the radio. The soldier’s regimental insignia had been blown off with his shirt and there was so much blood the face was completely unrecognizable. Captain Robinson had no idea who it was. He had a huge hole in the back of his head, and his wounds were so bad Robinson assumed he must already be dead. But to make certain, he put his hand into the soldier’s mouth. He felt a breath. ‘Doc, doc, this guy’s alive.’

  Perhaps hearing these words, the wounded soldier pushed himself up with one arm, let out a desperate groan and vomited blood all over Robinson.

  The doc, jammed in at the other end of the wagon, yelled, ‘Get some oxygen on him – now. Everybody get out your field dressings and find a bleeding point.’

  Robinson grabbed the oxygen mask and pressed it firmly over the man’s face. Some of the troops were so tightly packed together they couldn’t reach their dressings, so they shoved their fists into the open wounds of the soldier now spread-eagled beneath them, desperately trying to stop him bleeding to death.

  Robinson felt around the man’s bloody neck and found his dog tags. He was horrified to see Bailey’s name. Suddenly this was very personal. Lance Corporal Dean Bailey had been one of Robinson’s boys when he led Sniper Platoon a few months earlier. They had been a particularly tight-knit team.

  He shouted, ‘Dean, Dean, you are going to be OK, mate. The helicopter is on the way to get you.’

  To Tredget he yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Doc – do something. Do something. He’s one of my guys. You’ve got to save him.’

  Tredget – now stretched all over Bailey trying to stop him from bleeding to death, shouted back, ‘I’m doing all I can – we need to get this man back to FOB Rob ASAP, like now. He’s losing a hell of a lot of blood.’

  The column finally started trundling forward to Snow’s WMIKs and turned laboriously in the narrow space beside the blazing garage. Then the drivers slammed down their accelerators and ran the Taliban gauntlet once more.

  The DShK anti-aircraft machine-gun crew that had been killed when the ambush began had been replaced, and the heavy gun was firing again from the same spot in the open ground. Several rounds hit the back of Lee’s Viking, but he was by now travelling too fast to have any chance of getting accurate fire back at the enemy gunners.

  In Robinson’s Viking, the situation worsened as the vehicle bounced at horrific speeds back through the killing area, throwing Bailey’s badly broken body from floor to roof.

  Gunner Hughes from the artillery fire support team was top cover in Robinson’s vehicle. As they cleared the killing area, Hughes tumbled down through the hatch, screaming, ‘I’ve been shot in the face. I’ve been shot in the face. Help me. Help me.’ A bullet had scored across his face, but, quickly realizing it was just a graze, he went back up to his position.

  One thousand metres past the killing zone the whole column arrived at a shallow wadi. Here they stopped for a further head check, to confirm they had everyone. With Newton rushing between wagons, it took two minutes, and then they were speeding off again to FOB Rob, now in sight.

  The battered column screamed through the guard post, kicking up clouds of dust as it moved through the base. Newton stopped his Viking beside the company aid post, leapt straight out and ran round to the back. The medics were waiting with their stretchers. Newton pulled open the door and saw Bailey, lying face down on top of all the soldiers in the back, unconscious. He put his hands underneath Bailey’s chest, neck and chin and, assisted by a medic, lifted him as carefully as he could on to a stretcher.

  The medics took him into the ISO container that made up part of the aid po
st. Tredget followed him in, and he and a US military doctor went to work.

  Corporal Parker grabbed one of the burnt engineers and helped carry him into the aid post. At the same time, the MERT Chinook came in to land on the south side of the base. Its two Apache escorts circled like vultures overhead, hunting for enemy.

  Ruecker, still shaking and sobbing uncontrollably, had been helped out of the back of the vehicle by Thrumble and was shouting, ‘Where’s Dean? Where’s Dean?’

  His uniform, and his face and arms, were covered in Bailey’s blood and gore. He threw his body armour to the ground and then tore off his blood-soaked clothing. Sergeant Woodrow grabbed some bottles of Evian and poured them over him. He handed a full bottle to Ruecker. ‘Here clack some of that down you, Teddy.’

  Ruecker gulped down 6 litres one after the other.

  Lee put an arm round Ruecker, trying to calm him down. ‘Teddy, how about an ash, mate? Look, have one of these Lamberts, they’re gleaming. We always save them for special occasions.’

  Ruecker gratefully put one of Lee’s prized cigarettes between his lips and drew it down heavily into his lungs, the first time he had ever smoked.

  Captain Robinson raced to the ops room. Standing up as he entered, Broomfield did a double take. Robinson was covered from head to foot in Bailey’s blood, mingled with a thick coating of dust. His hair was sticking up, he was sweating heavily, and his face was deep red. He was gulping from a filthy-looking bottle of Evian.

  He said loudly, ‘We need an aircraft, Dave, we need one now. Get it sorted.’

  Broomfield replied, ‘We’ve got one, mate, it’s just landed.’

  ‘Good, well done. We need to get that Viking denied quickly. There’s weapons and explosives inside it and all the ECM kit. We’ve got to deny it and fast before the enemy get into it.’

  Broomfield said, ‘I’ve asked battle group HQ for permission to deny. I’ve told Sergeant Dyer to get one of the Apaches to stand by to take it out with Hellfire.’