Attack State Red

by Richard Kemp

  On the radio Broomfield informed Aston that Watson would have to be evacuated.

  ‘Zero Alpha, that is not going to happen,’ said Aston angrily. ‘Can he walk? Over.’

  ‘Two Zero, yes. But he does need to be CASEVACed.’

  The conversation went back and forth on the radio with Aston getting increasingly impatient.

  Broomfield waded 150 metres in filthy water, waist deep, along an irrigation ditch for a face-to-face with the company commander. He found Aston sitting against a wall, thunderous.

  ‘Does he need to go?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Does the medic agree?’

  ‘Yes, sir, the medic agrees.’

  Aston stared straight into Broomfield’s eyes, shaking his head.

  ‘OK, so he goes,’ said Aston resignedly.

  He was single-mindedly focused on pursuing the enemy and clearing them from the area in line with the battle group commander’s intent. There was nothing personal or emotional about it. This was, quite simply, his job. In the extraordinarily difficult circumstances of infantry operations in Helmand, it was very easy to allow 1,001 things to divert you from the task in hand. Dogged determination was the only way to succeed.

  Aston knew what evacuating a casualty from here would mean. They could not get a helicopter in, so there was no choice but to get Watson out on foot. They couldn’t split up the force, so the whole company would have to patrol back out of the Green Zone to RV with the Vikings. It would divert all of the company’s efforts and resources for several valuable hours.

  He cared more about the lives of his soldiers than anything else – including his own life. But he had wanted to be absolutely certain this evacuation was necessary before he agreed to it. It still didn’t please him. With undisguised annoyance he rattled out his orders on the net. The company would extract from Katowzay, patrol back across the Green Zone for 1,500 metres and secure an area close to the desert near Route 611 for the Vikings to come in and evacuate the casualty. The company would then turn straight round and make best speed to get back into the fight.

  7

  6 Platoon led B Company north, away from Katowzay, alongside a canal.

  They had been moving for fifteen minutes when there was a sudden whoosh-whoosh. Two RPG missiles landed in front of them, flinging up lumps of earth and shards of red-hot shrapnel. Aston identified the firing point – compounds 400 metres away to their left – and told Warwick to pound them with mortar fire.

  Warwick hit the pressel switch and urgently started calling in the fire mission.

  Then Aston yelled, ‘Incoming! Take cover!’

  Almost as one, the men of B Company Tac dived into the canal as burst after burst of automatic fire pinged into the ground where they had been standing. Bullets cracked into the trees, showering leaves and branches on to their heads. Moments later four more RPGs exploded in the bank above, covering them with dirt and more branches.

  The whole company was now in the ditch, and Aston drove them forward, wading at snail’s pace through the thick, sucking mud in the bottom of the canal. After 500 metres they were hit again by RPG and gunfire from the north.

  Aston decided that the Taliban must think the tables had turned, and the British patrol was running back the way it had come. He was concerned they might start summoning reinforcements up from the south. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go – Aston’s men were meant to be driving the enemy south into the fire of A Company.

  The JTAC had called in all available air. Overhead, two Apaches and six American jets were stacked up, and above them a U2 spy plane was listening out for enemy communications. As the company advanced steadily along the canal, the aircraft provided cover, sending cannon fire and missiles into the compounds ahead.

  With his point section leading the company through the waist-deep water, Broomfield identified a Taliban firing position. The JTAC couldn’t see to talk the Apaches on, so Broomfield switched his radio to the Clear Air Ground frequency, or CAG, enabling him to speak direct to the pilot. ‘Hello, Ugly Five One, this is Copper Two Zero Alpha. I am the forward Copper callsign. Target indication over.’

  After hours of sweating across the Green Zone, scrambling in the mud and the ditches, shooting at the Taliban and being continuously fired at, the icy cool response, from an air-conditioned cockpit sitting 700 metres above the battlefield, sounded surreal. Broomfield was amused that the Apache commander had the calm, measured voice of a Boeing 747 pilot on a routine flight from Heathrow addressing the passengers. ‘Ugly Five One, roger, Copper Two Zero Alpha, can you mark the target please.’

  It was a point of pride to the Royal Anglian commanders that, when they were talking to each other during battles, they should sound as laid-back as possible. The worst possible insult would be to say, ‘Roger – I understand. Now try and stay calm.’ They joked after contacts about how they had enjoyed a ‘calm-off’ competition between themselves. Afterwards they would bicker at each other with insults about who had remained calmest throughout life-and-death situations and who had, indeed, won the ‘calm-off’.

  ‘He’s trying to win the calm-off with me,’ said Broomfield, to the amusement of Archer, his signaller.

  Broomfield’s platoon sergeant, Ben Browning, and his 51mm mortar man, flung up their last remaining smoke bomb. In the calmest, most measured voice he could manage, Broomfield came back on the net: ‘Ugly Five One, this is Copper Two Zero Alpha. Reference smoke, come 300 metres west of smoke. Haystack. North of haystack. Treeline. Enemy in treeline.’

  ‘Ugly Five One, no, target not identified, can you provide a further indication please, over.’

  6 Platoon had run out of smoke bombs, so Broomfield told Private Scott Bramman to fire an AT4 missile towards the target. He would talk the pilot on from the impact of the missile. But – click – the AT4 misfired and Bramman slung it off to the side of the ditch.

  Broomfield tried to talk the helicopter on by referring to the haystack, but the pilot advised him that he could not see the haystack. How can you not see that, it’s absolutely massive, thought Broomfield. Then he thought, Yes but I’m seeing it from a worm’s eye view, and he’s so far up, I suppose it’s not surprising it’s difficult to identify.

  Broomfield gave up with the Apache; he couldn’t spend any more time static and needed to move on. He switched off the CAG and back on to B Company net. The JTAC took over further attempts to direct the helicopters, but although they continued firing at depth targets – well ahead of the company – they were not able to engage the closer-up enemy positions, which presented a greater threat to B Company.

  Broomfield continued along the ditch. A short time later two American Apaches arrived on station, replacing the British aircraft that had now departed to refuel. The American presence was a huge morale boost for the troops. They flew so low that Broomfield could read the letters on their underside – about 20 metres off the ground. He fully understood why British Apaches never came down to this height, especially in the Green Zone, but the close presence of the American helicopters made everyone feel a lot safer.

  The feeling of safety was an illusion. As they reached the end of the ditch, an RPG missile whizzed straight into 6 Platoon, passing between two soldiers, just 3 metres from their heads. It splashed into the water and exploded in the mud behind Corporal Murphy. Fortunately it sunk in so deep that nobody was hurt.

  Broomfield had to move out of the ditch and he decided to head into a compound 150 metres away. Sporadic enemy fire was still cutting into the bank. He had no expectation that they could move across the open area without being shot at. But they couldn’t stay here. They had to keep moving, to get Watson back and then to resume the offensive.

  Broomfield formed the platoon into a rough baseline, firing at likely positions. But they couldn’t identify the enemy, so it did little good. Corporal Murphy’s section led the way across the field. Running as fast as they could, well spaced out, the men moved across the open, bullets zin
ging overhead and smacking into the dirt at their feet.

  When Murphy’s section hit the compound, relieved and amazed they were all still alive, they formed a base of fire and sent rifle and machine-gun bullets towards the enemy in an attempt to provide some cover for their mates as they in turn did the ‘dash of death’.

  As the rest of the platoon followed Murphy’s section, the US Apache pilots, seeing the danger the British infantrymen faced, brought their gunships in even lower, hoping to deter the enemy from shooting at the ground troops. The pilots were putting themselves and their aircraft in much greater danger. As Broomfield ran, he looked upwards. Directly overhead, so low he thought he could almost touch it, an Apache was blasting 30mm cannon shells in the direction they were running.

  Dripping sweat and panting hard, Broomfield leant against the compound wall. Miraculously every one of his men, including the wounded Private Watson, had survived the dash through Taliban bullets. Broomfield took stock. This compound was too exposed to enemy fire to form the rallying point Aston would need for the company before moving on to RV with the Vikings. The next compound into the complex would be safer, but it necessitated crossing another open area.

  He called Aston, who was back in the ditch with Tac. ‘Zero Alpha, Two Zero Alpha. Moving my callsign into Compound 127. Recommend company consolidates there prior to moving to RV, over.’

  After a brief pause Aston said, ‘Roger. JTAC is reporting enemy movement in Compound 129, identified by air. Apaches will fire flechette into that compound just before you move to 127. I will confirm on this means when flechette attack is complete. You will then move. Out.’

  Broomfield led his men round the compound ready to run another 200 metres to Compound 127. Everybody was exhausted, and Broom-field, Browning and the section commanders had to get around the troops, encouraging them, telling them to stay alert and switched on, getting them ready for a further huge effort.

  As the Apaches carried out their devastating flechette attack, Broom-field heard a sound like an incredibly loud pneumatic drill, blasting out from above. Each warhead contains eighty tungsten flechettes, each dart weighing 18 grams. When fired they separate and form a disk-like mass which breaks up with each flechette assuming an independent trajectory, using kinetic energy to penetrate the target. They work on the same principal as grapeshot: their purpose to kill people over an area as big as a tennis court.

  6 Platoon repeated the dash they had made from the ditch, using fire and manoeuvre to get to the compound. Broomfield’s men searched the buildings. It was occupied only by four women and an old man, all of whom regarded the soldiers with expressionless resignation. Broom-field gestured them into a room and indicated they must stay there.

  He reported to Aston, ‘Compound clear. Now firm.’

  Aston led Tac from the ditch to join them. As he ran across the open field, bullets splattering around his feet and zipping overhead, he thought, This is going to end in disaster. I am going to watch somebody getting shot here.

  He thought he was running super fast but, looking at the ground, realized it was almost slow motion, carrying his 36 kilos of kit, weighed down even further by the canal water. 6 Platoon covered them across, and the Apaches continued to circle low overhead, blasting 30mm shells.

  From the compound, Broomfield and his signaller, Private Archer, saw 5 Platoon moving towards them along a different route. They were crawling up a ditch, 150 metres away. Broomfield saw heads bobbing up and down. As he watched, Taliban machine-gun fire raked the top of the ditch, bullets ripping into the dirt all the way along the line of 5 Platoon soldiers.

  Howes had led his platoon along a ditch branching off from the main canal, towards Broomfield’s compound. The ditch led into a 100-metre-long concrete pipe, with gravel and water in the bottom. This would take them closer to the compound, and Howes hoped to avoid the 6 Platoon dash of death. He led them into the dark and airless pipe. As they crawled through, bullets were thudding into the concrete from both sides. This was the heaviest fire they had experienced so far. Howes wondered when the first bullet would drill through the pipe into him or one of his men.

  It was stifling hot inside the pipe, even hotter than under the baking late-morning sun outside. It was a terrifying experience, but as he crawled Howes managed to amuse himself with the thought: Now I know why I’ve spent so much of my Army career to date crawling through concrete pipes like this on assault courses and live firing exercises. I’ll never call them pointless again.

  5 Platoon’s problems didn’t end when they got through the pipe. They still had to cross almost 100 metres of open ground. 6 Platoon laid down as much fire as they could to try to help their mates survive the race across the open through a gauntlet of gunfire.

  Broomfield watched the men of 5 Platoon throw themselves into the compound entrance next to him, almost collapsing as they came through. Then there was a tremendous roar overhead, the loudest sound he had ever heard. A shadow passed by. The ground and the compound shook. He looked up and saw, flying very low, the enormous, sleek black shape of an American B1B Lancer strategic bomber, which had been called in to provide a show of strength against the Taliban. When the bomber had passed over, there was silence. There was no more firing. Everything seemed suddenly and eerily calm.

  Aston looked around at his men. Sentries had been posted, and the rest of the company had collapsed to the ground, grateful to be off their feet for the first time in ages. Everybody looked totally exhausted. It was 1100 hours, and B Company had been in contact for nearly six hours without a break.

  Aston was keen to move on, hand Watson over, and return to the fight. But he could see the men needed a rest and reluctantly told his commanders they would stay here for an hour to sort themselves out.

  Most of the men were low on water or completely out. They found the well and filled up water bottles and Camelbaks. The water, from 20 metres underground, was ice cold and refreshing, and the soldiers tipped it over their heads to cool down. Some of the troops poured lemon powder into the water to kill the taste of the puritabs they had added. The powder, called ‘screech’ because it is so sharp it makes you wince when you drink it, came in ration packs and contained vital salts to replace those lost through sweat. Most grabbed something to eat – a biscuit or a liquefied helping of boil-in-the-bag corned beef.

  The men removed their webbing and body armour and opened their clothing. Some treated sores and rashes from webbing and equipment. Others, still pumped up by the adrenalin of their close encounters with enemy fire, moved around chatting to mates they had not spoken to for what seemed ages.

  Despite the state they were in, morale was high. They had been through a lot together, and they were happy and relieved just to have a pause, even though they knew there was much more to come.

  Now the company was settled Aston allowed the Afghans out of the room they had been kept in. Some of the soldiers gave them sweets and food from their ration packs. One of the women walked round the compound tending her chickens.

  The man told Aston’s interpreter, ‘We don’t mind you being in our home. You are welcome. But I have my family here, and please respect them.’

  Overhead, the Apaches had spotted more enemy movement just beyond the compound and were engaging again with 30mm cannons and flechette. Aston was now getting worried about the possibility of a friendly fire incident. He noticed a huge carpet hanging up, airing, in the middle of the compound. It had a large red square in the middle of it and he told the JTAC to lay it out as a panel marker so the aircraft could clearly identify their position.

  Gunner Hughes, Aston’s signaller, called him across to listen to a call from the watch keeper in the Joint Operations Centre at battle group headquarters in Bastion.

  ‘Copper Three Zero Alpha, this is Copper Zero. Be aware we have received an enemy communications intercept stating that the Taliban commander Tor Jan with eighty fighters has surrounded a British force near Katowzay and is preparing to assassinate them.’
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  The U2 spy plane flying 20,000 metres above had picked up radio chatter from the Taliban near by. They were talking about B Company.

  Aston called out to his men, ‘Tor Jan can piss off. I will be the judge of who assasinates who.’

  8

  The company patrolled off in the midday heat, led by Howes and 5 Platoon. Within half an hour 5 Platoon were in contact again as the Taliban opened fire from a compound to their left. It was a hit and run attack, the enemy escaping as 5 Platoon poured fire back into their positions.

  6 Platoon had gone firm briefly in a village. It was 1300 hours, and the sun was at its hottest. Broomfield saw that Corporal Adlington looked wobbly on his legs, and he seemed very pale.

  ‘You OK, Corporal A?’

  ‘Yes, boss. No problem.’

  Adlington’s eyes rolled back and he keeled over sideways, his kit clattering on the ground.

  B Company now had two casualties, and the situation was bad – six of them had to carry a stretcher, and the casualty’s kit was spread between several other soldiers, effectively tying down most of the platoon – and further exhausting those with the extra burden, adding to the risk that they too might go down with heat exhaustion.

  As the company moved forward again, Aston and his Tac moved out of a ditch and were met by a loud explosion 200 metres away. There was a whoosh and another blast and a blinding flash as an RPG warhead detonated 5 metres in front of them, kicking up lumps of earth. Tac dived for cover, and 5 Platoon, off to the flank, dashed forward and began hammering fire towards the area the rocket had come from.

  Above the intense rattle of 5 Platoon’s machine-gun fire, Aston heard Lance Corporal Tony Warwick shouting, ‘I’ve been hit! I’ve been hit!’

  Aston crawled over to his MFC, who was writhing and grimacing on the ground. His trousers were torn up, and his leg, ripped open by shrapnel, was oozing blood. His ankle was shattered, and he was in agony.