by Richard Kemp
‘All right, mate,’ said Aston. ‘We’ll sort you out. You’ll be OK.’ He took out Warwick’s field dressing and started to patch him up. A medic crawled across and took over.
When they had done their best to stem the bleeding, assisted by members of 5 Platoon, they got Warwick on to a stretcher. Pouring sweat, low again on water, and taking it in turns to carry the stretchers and kit, the exhausted company moved their three casualties back as fast as they could – running most of the way in the Scorching heat. Warwick in particular needed to get to the field hospital at Bastion as quickly as possible.
Most of the soldiers were now really feeling the heat. Hearts beating like mad, dizzy, almost fainting and on the edge of throwing up, they were being stretched to the absolute limit. Many were moaning, as soldiers do no matter what the circumstances, but as always they were just getting on with it.
Somehow, the shattered company emerged from the Green Zone and staggered into their desert RV with the casualties at 1400 hours. It was 50 degrees. The casualties were loaded on to a Viking and driven immediately back to FOB Fox for evacuation by Chinook.
Aston was busy planning the next move. Howes and Broomfield and their platoon sergeants moved among the troops, chatting to them and checking they were OK. Morale was still at a peak. The men were ragging each other about everything from expected football results and girlfriends back home to narrow misses and mishaps during the incessant contacts of the last few hours. After everything they had just been through, the bond between them was even more solid than ever.
Broomfield flopped down beside Private Jamie ‘Pez’ Perry and Jason ‘Jiz’ Thompson. The two were best mates and never stopped ragging each other. ‘Boss,’ said Perry, ‘don’t sit there. Jiz’s breath’ll make you feel ill. It’s really rank. I’d have moved myself if he didn’t need me to supervise him all the time. I almost had to carry him down that ditch today he was so scared. Did you see him flinch when that RPG came past. Weak, sir, wasn’t it?’
Broomfield opened his mouth to attempt a witty comment, and Thompson made a retching noise, turning his head away.
‘You’re complaining about me, Pez. Have you smelt the boss’s breath? That’s disgusting, sir. Has something died in your mouth? I wouldn’t have expected something like that from a member of the officers’ mess. I thought you lot were supposed to have standards, boss. You want to get something done about it. If you hurry, boss, you could get on that CASEVAC chopper that’s coming in for Watson. I reckon your wound must be worse than his going by that smell.’
One of the other lads called across, ‘Shut up, you two, it’s all we ever hear from you, complaining about people’s breath. Give it a rest. Just ignore these clowns, boss. How is Watson? Has he gone yet?’
The men needed a lot of water and were low on ammo. Every soldier had fired mag after mag in the countless firefights of the last two days. Some of the soldiers’ clothing was falling off them – torn up by fighting across the rough ground and over jagged compound walls and disintegrating with the sweat that kept them constantly soaked day and night. A few of them managed to get replacement combat trousers with the sergeant major’s ammo and water resupply.
Seeing the state of the Royal Anglians’ rotten and soaking socks, two Royal Marines Viking Crewmen who were helping the sergeant major took off their own boots, removed their socks and threw them to the nearest soldiers.
Company medics checked over some of the men. Most were suffering from infections in their face, legs, genitals, ears and eyes – in fact anywhere that had come into contact with the filthy, germ-ridden canals they had been wading through. Ointments and cures were dished out and dozens of packets of zinc oxide for their feet. Every man in the company was now suffering from blisters, and the treatment helped get rid of the pain and stop the wounds from infecting. Rolls of bandage were distributed as the medics saw the soldiers were suffering deep, bleeding lacerations from carrying so much weight on top of rough and wet webbing.
As the men sorted out their kit and their bodies, they saw Apaches overhead and heard in the distance the sound of a Chinook landing with the MERT to extract the three casualties, who had by now arrived back at FOB Fox.
With the casualty evacuation and resupply complete, and wounds licked, at 1600 hours Aston marched the company back into the Green Zone to set up overwatch positions to interdict enemy trying to cross the river. He bolstered the company’s firepower with FSG snipers and a Javelin missile team he had ordered to join them at the RV.
The platoons moved into their overwatch positions, set up observation posts, and the men took it in turns to rest. The moment they arrived, Aston was on the satellite phone to Carver. He was itching to get back in and deal with the Taliban at Katowzay. Carver agreed his attack plan and, with just two to three hours’ sleep under their belts, Aston led the company out again just after midnight.
9
Aston deployed 6 Platoon into a compound covering the eastern edge of Katowzay outside the village and sent 5 Platoon to assault from the north.
Exactly at first light, Corporal Mo Morris and Lance Corporal John King, two snipers positioned on 6 Platoon’s compound roof, saw a fighter emerge from one of the buildings 600 metres away on the outskirts of the village. An AK47 was slung over his shoulder and he was speaking into a mobile phone. Corporal Morris called down to Broom-field, who was sitting on the stairs leading up to the roof, asking permission to open fire. Broomfield gave them the thumbs-up. The two snipers did a countdown and fired at precisely the same moment, dropping the fighter where he stood.
A second fighter rushed out of the building, carrying an RPG, and Morris and King shot him as he emerged. A third man, brandishing an AK47, followed the other two out and was also shot.
5 Platoon attacked into Katowzay and cleared through the village. It was completely quiet, there was no sign of life, and they didn’t encounter any enemy. The platoon went firm on the far side of the village, and 6 Platoon moved across from their compound, closing into Katowzay with Aston’s Tac HQ.
Lieutenant Howes sent his lead section across a poppy field on the edge of the village. They got half-way across the open area when there was a burst of machine-gun fire from a woodline just 70 metres away.
As Howes yelled, ‘Pull back! Pull back!’ several soldiers from the other sections dashed to the compound roof and started firing at the enemy positions, shooting over their mates’ heads as they ran back. The soldiers managed to get back to the compound as bullets tore up the ground behind them.
Howes called Aston: ‘Zero Alpha, One Zero Alpha. Contact now. Six enemy with automatic weapons in treeline seventy metres south of my location. Engaged my forward section. No casualties. My callsign now moving to assault.’
Leaving a section on the roof for fire support, Howes led the rest of the platoon round to a nearby compound from where he could attack the enemy position using a covered approach. But several enemy fighters had crept round to the flank, and as soon as Howes’s men tried to get out of the compound they came under fire. Using the section on the roof to blast at the enemy, Howes tried three times to leave the compound, but each time was driven back by enemy bullets. The men on the roof saw other fighters moving stealthily through the undergrowth and shot at them, but were not sure they had hit.
Howes called Aston, ‘My callsign is pinned down in this location. Cannot move out of the compound. Looks like the enemy are trying to move round the flanks and get in behind us.’
Aston was concerned that 5 Platoon could become cut off from the rest of the company. He needed to act urgently. And they were too close to the enemy for mortar fire or air attack. On the radio he gave detailed orders to the two platoons. Broomfield was to move 6 Platoon into a compound near by then attack and destroy the enemy under covering fire from 5 Platoon to their left.
It was 0830 hours. Broomfield took a few minutes to brief his section commanders. 5 Platoon were still under fire. Broomfield and his commanders crouched behind a wall, th
e best cover they could find. ‘Corporal Murphy’s and Corporal Ashby’s section will assault the enemy position. You will move down the ditch line dead ahead. Corporal Murphy’s section will lead, followed by Corporal Ashby. I will move behind Corporal Ashby. 5 Platoon will provide covering fire from their compound to the left. Corporal Owen’s section is to move down the ditch to the right and provide flank protection from there. You will move first.’
Corporal Owen led his section off to the right, followed by Sergeant Browning with the 51mm mortar. As they moved Broomfield got on the radio to Howes. ‘One Zero Alpha, Two Zero Alpha. My callsign moving now. Increase fire from your callsign.’
Howes had pushed every man that could fit up on to the compound roof, and now their fire became devastatingly intense, hosing long bursts of tracer into the Taliban positions.
Broomfield gave Owen five minutes to get into position then signalled thumbs-up to Corporal Murphy. Murphy, his back seeping blood from the equipment rubbing against his sodden shirt, feet taped up and unable to walk properly, led his section into the ditch. He was unable to fight his way through the mass of entangled, thick brambles that blocked the ditch. In a low voice he called back to his men, ‘We’ll have to get up on the bank, but keep down as low as you possibly can. Try to use the trees for cover.’
Bullets were cracking close overhead. Lance Corporal Ashby and his men were right behind Murphy. When the last soldier had moved past, Broomfield and his signaller, Archer, started to follow. On the radio Broomfield heard a call from 5 Platoon: ‘AT4 firing – now!’
There was a loud explosion from 5 Platoon’s compound as the AT4 launched. Broomfield then heard an enormous explosion in the ditch ahead, at exactly the spot Corporal Murphy would be.
He felt sick. Blue on blue. I don’t believe it.
10
But the AT4 did not cause the explosion in the ditch. At the same moment as the AT4 was fired by 5 Platoon, Private Thompson looked into the eyes of a Taliban fighter with an RPG launcher on his shoulder. Private Perry, just behind him, started to swing his weapon towards the fighter.
When Thompson locked eyes with the Taliban fighter everything slowed right down. Before either Thompson or Perry could react, there was a loud bang. Thompson saw a jet of flame flash from the back of the launcher and a cloud of blue-grey smoke, and the missile in the air, spinning straight at him. The rocket glanced off his Osprey chest plate and flung him violently into the bank, knocking the wind out of him. It exploded against the side of the ditch between him and Perry.
Thompson was engulfed in the enormous blast, and he felt as if he was on fire. He saw a blinding flash and the air was filled with smoke. Everything went silent, and then he heard screaming.
Straight away he tried to get up, but his legs buckled under him. He looked down. He was covered in blood, and he immediately felt utterly terrified. He was disorientated, his whole body was stinging, he was in agony and he thought he was going to die. His right femur and left patella were shattered, his wrist and jaw were broken. His whole body was cut up by RPG shrapnel, with fifty holes in his legs alone.
Beside him Perry lay bleeding and moaning, 157 separate shrapnel wounds in his arms, legs and nose. Corporal Murphy, who was close by, was hurled to the ground by the blast. He felt his legs, peppered by shrapnel, compressing and burning. He looked down and saw his trousers had been torn away and his legs were covered in blood.
Private Ross Green, Murphy’s GPMG gunner, towards the rear, and an engineer behind him, were also badly wounded.
The fighter ran off down the ditch, and automatic fire started to pour in from Taliban positions further out.
Behind Murphy’s section, Corporal Ashby felt the shock wave, shook himself and immediately crawled forward along the bank, avoiding enemy fire. Ashby saw the bleeding bodies in the ditch below and started to move forward to help them. Then he saw muzzle flashes in the undergrowth 50 metres away. He feared the enemy would rush forward to finish off Murphy’s men. His priority was to protect them; others would crawl up the ditch to deal with the casualties.
He grabbed the wounded Green’s GPMG and crawled further along the ditch. He was moving closer to the torrent of bullets scything into the bank, but needed to get forward to fire at the enemy position, and to cover the distance between them and the wounded soldiers. He started blasting fire towards the Taliban muzzle flashes, conscious of his own muzzle flashes and the puffs of smoke shooting out of his gun barrel every time he hit the trigger. He felt exposed and vulnerable, but he would do anything to protect his mates lying bleeding beside the ditch.
An engineer had crawled up after him and started firing his rifle. The Taliban quickly picked up Ashby’s position and started to focus their fire at him. Their shooting was accurate and close, bullets ripping into the ground right next to him. But Ashby and the engineer remained exposed and firing, desperate to keep the enemy back until Murphy and his men could be got to safety.
Broomfield heard the explosion and the screaming, but could not see what was happening further along the ditch. He called Browning on the radio, ‘Move to my location. Casualties.’
He then called Murphy, ‘Send SITREP.’
After a pause Murphy came on the radio, sounding remarkably calm, ‘I can’t see what’s going on. I am in the ditch with shrapnel in my legs, over.’
He saw Ashby on the bank firing his GPMG.
At that moment Private Green staggered back round the corner of the ditch. He had multiple shrapnel wounds in his leg, he was covered in blood, his clothes were shredded, and he looked dazed. Green had also been hit by an RPG just the day before, but this one had done real damage. Broomfield grabbed him by the shoulders, ‘Greeny. Greeny. Look at me. Go over there. Sit down over there. We’ll sort you out in a second.’
Ashby and the engineer kept firing. The engineer’s rifle jammed, and Broomfield crawled over and swapped weapons so he could keep firing.
Sergeant Browning and Corporal Owen moved back down the ditch to the right, under enemy fire all the way. Owen and his men went forward to bring back the casualties. Browning started to organize their first aid.
Owen directed his men to each casualty. ‘Get them out quick. Drag them back up the ditch.’
He went to Thompson, took out his knife and cut through the straps of his daysack. He and Private Tony Purcell carried Thompson back through the slush and the mud, twigs and branches falling on to them as bullets ripped into the trees above.
Broomfield saw two men dragging another wounded soldier back down the ditch. The man’s body armour had ridden up round his face, and Broomfield couldn’t see who it was. He grabbed the soldier’s bleeding legs and helped carry him back to the casualty area, in an alleyway between two compound walls.
Broomfield ran back to make sure all the casualties had been brought out and positioned soldiers to protect the area where the wounded were being treated.
When he was satisfied, Broomfield returned to the casualties. Browning had lined them up along the wall. They were bleeding and moaning, and their clothes had been blown off them or were hanging in shredded rags. There were four Royal Anglians and a Royal Engineer, whose helmet had been split right down the centre by a splinter from the rocket.
Broomfield looked down at Thompson, who had been ragging him for bad breath the previous afternoon. Private Hare had tied tourniquets round both of his legs, trying to stop the blood oozing out of the puncture wounds. Another soldier was trying to get a drip into him. He was writhing in agony, and Hare was about to give him morphine when Broomfield snatched the syrette from his grasp. He wanted do it himself. He was devastated to see his soldiers lying bleeding and in agony. He needed to do something to help them. He took the morphine syrette. He had done it many times before in training but now couldn’t remember which end to punch into Thompson’s leg. He looked at the instructions on the tube, then pulled off the red end cap, pushed the yellow end on to Thompson’s thigh and pressed down on the black plunger, now under
standing why an ‘idiot’s guide’ is needed.
Pulling the long needle out, he thought, What the hell am I doing? I can’t get sucked in to treating individual soldiers. I can’t let emotion get hold of me, I’ve got my job to do.
He looked at the soldiers treating the casualties. Agonized emotion was all over their faces. They weren’t just treating casualties, they were treating the horrific wounds of mates with whom they had been through so much in the last few months, who had become closer than brothers.
Aston was there now, and Broomfield briefed him. ‘We have five casualties, all being treated. Security is deployed to protect the area. There is a lot of kit that we won’t be able to carry out of here. Personal kit, four bar-mines and a Javelin missile. I’ve told the engineers to deny it.’
Aston looked as upset as Broomfield to see the men like this, but he remained calm. He had already ordered CASEVAC from battle group HQ. Because of the seriousness of the situation the RAF commander decided to take the risk of bringing a British Chinook into the Green Zone.
Aston sent 6 Platoon to secure a landing site 1,500 metres away, beyond the danger from enemy fire, and Tac HQ and the snipers secured the casualty evacuation route out of the village. 5 Platoon carried the casualties to the helicopter, leaving a section to cover the enemy positions in the woodline in case Taliban survivors tried to get forward.
Within half an hour the Chinook swept into view with two more Apaches overhead for protection. The pilot sent the helicopter into a dramatic low dive, rotor blades seeming almost to touch the ground as it landed heavily. The poppies had recently been harvested, and the air was full of cut stalks hurled in every direction by the powerful rotor downwash.
The stretcher bearers were shattered after a forced march of one and a half sweltering kilometres across rough terrain. Five of them were close to heat exhaustion. Broomfield helped carry Thompson on to the Chinook, while an interpreter held his drip.