Attack State Red

by Richard Kemp

  Extremely fit, aggressive in battle, approachable and determined, Borgnis had been intent on joing the Army since he was a boy. There was military tradition in the family. A great grandfather served in the Boer War, and his grandfather, the highly decorated Major General Anthony Deane-Drummond, fought at Arnhem and in Italy during the Second World War, and after the war commanded the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment in Malaya and Oman. When his grandson left for Helmand, the general’s only advice was ‘Look after your soldiers,’ a sentiment that remained at the forefront of Borgnis’s mind.

  B Company patrolled from their base, COP Zeebrugge, in company strength almost every day, pushing back the forward Taliban lines further and further from the Kajaki Dam and its hydroelectricity station. The majority of the patrols resulted in savage contacts with the enemy.

  On 23 August, the company were preparing for yet another fighting patrol. Just after ten in the morning, Lieutenant George Seal-Coon, Sergeant Michael Woodrow and the NCOs of 7 Platoon were sitting in the briefing area next to the ops room in Zeebrugge. The room was hot, although the building’s stone construction gave some mitigation from the otherwise relentless heat of the Afghan summer. They were waiting for Corporal Stu Parker, who liked to emphasize his self-appointed position as senior section commander by being the last into the room.

  Map 10. Darkest Day

  ‘Glad you could make it, Corporal P. Sorry if we got you up,’ said Seal-Coon as Parker strolled in.

  ‘That’s OK, sir, you could have started without me. I probably knew the plan before you did anyway, boss: you know how the OC likes to confide in me when planning his ops.’

  Woodrow shook his head. He and Parker went back a long way, and he had given up on him years ago.

  Seal-Coon, with a show of exasperation that Parker enjoyed, made a start. ‘You all know in outline what’s happening from the warning order I issued. The OC gave me orders yesterday. It’s a pretty much routine patrol, but the big difference is we’re going out at 1600 hours this afternoon.’

  This was a break from the pattern at Kajaki, where company-strength fighting patrols usually deployed from the base in the early hours of the morning. Major Borgnis wanted to vary the routine, to keep the enemy off guard. The frequency of patrolling in a relatively small area meant that significantly varying routes was difficult to achieve. There were only so many options. Timing was about all they had to play with to make their activities less predictable.

  Seal-Coon continued. ‘Task org within the platoon – Corporal Mann is off on R and R, so I’m moving Corporal Veal from your section, Corporal P, to command 3 Section. OK?’

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Parker, ‘I’ll use Josh Lee as my 2IC.’

  ‘OK, good. He could probably do with the responsibility, good experience for his NCOs’ cadre when we get back. Private O’Dell will move into platoon HQ and take over as 51mm mortar man from Barke, who is leaving for the UK today. We’ll have a medic attached to the platoon plus engineers and a terp.

  ‘Company task org. The patrol will be commanded by the OC. We and 6 Platoon will be on the ground plus the FSG. There will also be an ANA platoon. 5 Platoon will remain in overwatch from the Peaks. The OC will also be using the UAV detachment for surveillance. We have two F15s allocated for part of the patrol.’

  The men were always happy to hear that US Air Force F15 Eagle tactical fighter jets were working with them. The pilots of the F15 squadron would always get a handle on the ground situation very quickly and were very effective at rapid and accurate bombing runs – extremely reassuring when things got sticky.

  Seal-Coon continued, now reading from his notes taken at Borgnis’s orders. ‘Within the overall purpose of pushing back the enemy lines, the company commander’s intent is to conduct a company clearance of Merzie and Mazdurak, to a limit of exploitation on the 812 northing, north of Mazdurak.’

  He looked around. ‘This is further than we or C Company before us have pushed before.’

  He continued reading. ‘As always the company commander intends to defeat any identified enemy forces with overwhelming use of direct and indirect fire assets. The company main effort is to find the enemy sniper in Khvolehabad or Rizaji and, once positively identified, to destroy him with all available combat power.’

  Ever since the company had arrived at Kajaki, Major Borgnis had been concerned about a Taliban sniper who was operating in the area. They were building up a pattern of his activity. He seemed to be getting better and more accurate – edging nearer to the point where he would kill a member of the company. So far he hadn’t hit anyone, but it had been a close thing on several occasions.

  During one clearance patrol in a compound on the way to Khvolehabad, Private Ronnie Barker was moving up on to the roof to provide cover. A single shot rang out and impacted in the wall just inches from his head. A short time later, Seal-Coon’s platoon deployed a sniper themselves, and as he crawled into position another shot splashed into the wall immediately above his body. Accurate fire like that caused the company to pull back rather than risk losing a soldier. On virtually every patrol they conducted now, they were getting held up by the sniper, making it increasingly difficult to maintain pressure on the Taliban, which was necessary to the objective of keeping them away from the dam.

  Borgnis believed there was just one sniper, as sometimes they would take accurate fire from one location, sometimes from another, but never at the same time. During several patrols they had specifically set out to find the sniper, and by a process of elimination had worked out that he most often operated from Compound 469 in the village of Khvolehabad, across the wadi from Mazdurak.

  They could not figure out what type of weapon was being used. The sniper seemed to be engaging over ranges from 400 to about 1,000 metres. It could have been a Russian-designed 7.62mm Dragunov sniper rifle, a high-velocity weapon with a killing range up to 3,800 metres. Readily available to the Taliban, in the right hands the Dragunov could easily pin down an entire company.

  There was speculation also about the possibility of various other weapons, perhaps heavier calibre. On one patrol, Private Thrumble had dug a large-calibre bullet head out of a compound wall. It was unusual, more closely resembling a 20mm round from an A10 cannon than a normal smallarms bullet. But if it had been fired by an A10 they would have expected to find dozens more bullet heads and splash marks around the area. There were none. Borgnis had the bullet sent back to Bastion for examination by the Weapons Intelligence Section.

  The sniper appeared at different points on the battlefield, regardless of the location of the main Taliban forces. They had found some of his skilfully concealed firing positions. He used tunnels to slip from one to another, and his escape routes were impossible to spot from the air.

  Using classic counter-sniper tactics, on each patrol Borgnis deployed Lance Corporal Teddy Ruecker and his sniper team into firing positions. If he showed himself, they would be able to engage the enemy marksman from a number of different angles. They engaged likely firing positions with mortars, artillery and air. During one operation they discovered human faeces and a recently killed snake in a hide that they thought might be his.

  Despite their efforts so far to triangulate the sniper’s fire, and to track him, they made little progress. They were up against an excellent sniper, clearly well trained, perhaps by a regular army: their speculation included Iran or Pakistan, and even the possibility that he was a veteran of the mujahideen campaign against the Soviets.

  2

  By 1045 hours Seal-Coon had finished his orders, and the section commanders passed the information on to their men in their own briefing sessions. Most of the essential pre-patrol administration had been completed the day before, and all that remained was final weapons preparation, redistribution of ammo and radio checks. After all that was complete the troops had the standard Kajaki diet of noodles or rice for lunch and then snatched a few hours relaxation or sleep before deploying.

  Private Richie Barke, the 51m
m mortar man who had been instrumental in saving Mac the medic’s life at Heyderabad back in May, was doing the rounds, saying goodbye to his mates in the company. At twenty-four, with six years’ service under his belt, he was an old soldier in the youthful B Company and had decided to leave the Army. He was flying out of Zeebrugge that afternoon and would be back in the UK a few days later.

  He walked into Private Foster’s room. Several of the lads, wearing shorts and flip flops, were sitting on their beds chatting. Foster was alone on his bed, peering into his PSP, grinning to himself and clearly enjoying what he was looking at.

  ‘What’s that you’re watching, Fozzie?’ said Barke.

  Foster looked up and then straight back at the screen, ‘Eh?’

  ‘What are you watching?’

  ‘Oh it’s just a film called 13 Going on 30. Brought it back from R and R.’

  ‘You what?’ said Barke, amused. He knew what the film was about, because he’d watched it himself but wasn’t about to admit it. ‘That’s a little girl’s film. You’re watching a girl’s film. You’re supposed to be a big tough soldier now, what’re you doing watching a girl’s film?’

  ‘What’re you talking about?’ said Foster, looking up.

  ‘Come on, lads, we can’t have this,’ said Barke, appealing to the others in the room. ‘He must have got all soft during his R and R.’

  With that they all piled on top of Foster, dragging him away from the PSP, grinding knuckles into his head, pulling his hair and poking him in the ribs. Foster managed to wriggle out from the bottom of the heap of soldiers and ran off into the next room, craftily booting Barke as he went.

  Josh Lee and several other soldiers were watching a DVD in one corner. Breathless from his exertions next door, Foster sat down on Thrumble’s bed and looked around the smoke-filled room.

  ‘Thrumble, I’d forgotten what a nutter you are,’ he said, surveying the room which was hung with plastic seventies disco banners showing silhouetted dancing figures wearing flares. A glitter ball dangled from the ceiling.

  ‘Shut up, Foz,’ said Thrumble, who was oiling his GPMG for the second time that morning, ‘or I’ll give you a bolt with the old cattle prod.’

  Thrumble’s mum, Pearl, had sent out the disco banners and lots of other weird things. She’d also sent an electric fly swatter. Characteristically, Thrumble had modified it, breaking off the net and using the exposed circuit to give his mates an electric shock whenever the mood took him.

  Barke came in and sat on the bed next to Foster. ‘I suppose your sister lent you that film, did she? I’ll probably go and see her when I’m back in Harlow.’ Barke and Foster were from the same Essex town.

  ‘Forget it, Rich, you’re not going anywhere near her. None of you squads are. So forget all about it.’

  ‘What was her name again?’

  ‘You’ll never find out her name so don’t even bother to try.’ He clipped Barke across the top of the head.

  Foster adored his sister and was always very protective. The other lads, as always, seized on this to wind him up. And it worked every time. He quickly changed the subject. ‘Did I tell you how many cheese sandwiches I had on R and R? Unbelievable. I’ve only been back a day and I’m desperate for one now instead of all this crappy noodles and rice.’

  ‘Foz, it’ll be worth leaving all you lot here just so I don’t have to listen to you and your cheese sandwiches all the time. Can’t you change the record?’

  ‘Send us some sarnies out, will you, Rich? You haven’t got a job sorted out yet, have you? Tell you what, why don’t you get a job in a sandwich shop then you can keep me supplied.’

  ‘Give it a rest. You want me to work in a sandwich shop just so I can keep you fed? I don’t think so. Anyway I have got a job fixed, pretty much. There’s this old boy that used to be CO of the battalion a few years back. He’s taking on ex soldiers in some security thing in London. I’ll probably go and do that.’

  ‘I wish I was you, mate,’ said Thrumble. ‘I can’t wait to get back to see my mum and dad and my brothers. I don’t blame you for going. Good luck to you, mate.’

  ‘Thrumble, you love it out here, you’ll never leave the Army. We could never separate you from that GPMG of yours.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s probably true. I expect I’ll stick with it. I was talking to Stevie Veal about doing an NCOs’ cadre when we get back. But I still can’t wait to get home and see my mum and dad.’

  Barke stood up. ‘Better say goodbye to the rest of the lads. The chopper’s not supposed to be here for a couple of hours, but you know what the crabs are like; they’ll probably call in about ten minutes and tell us we’re late.’

  Thrumble jumped up. ‘Richie, before you go, you’ve got to see this. I haven’t shown you the latest headcam video of Pingu, have I? Josh, eject that crap you’re watching there, and put this disc in. It’s brilliant, the best yet.’

  He looked at Private Sloane. ‘You’ve got to see this too, Pingu mate, you’re the star of the show. We can’t watch it without you.’

  Thrumble often took headcam footage of Sloane on patrol. Sloane had an unfortunate ability to always trip in potholes, or fall over low walls or ledges. He rarely managed to stay on his feet for long, and the troops likened him to Cristiano Ronaldo, the Manchester United player who also seemed to spend most of his time on the deck.

  Thrumble constantly, almost unceasingly, ragged Sloane. The only respite Sloane ever got was when Thrumble’s attention was turned to his other mate, Guardsman Hogg, or to his beloved machine-gun. But woe betide any other soldier, whoever they were, who attempted to have a go at Sloane. Thrumble had been Sloane’s close friend in training, and he was not fair game to anybody else.

  The video over, Barke tried again to get out of the room. As departure time grew closer, he was getting increasingly guilty about leaving his mates. It was an odd feeling, almost of letting them down, even though Barke had more than pulled his weight during the tour and was well liked and respected throughout the platoon. But they had all been through so much together in the last few months. He said to Private O’Dell, who had taken over his role in platoon HQ, ‘OD, make sure you take care of that fifty-one. I’m not as crazy about my weapon as Thrumble, but it’s given us some good service out here. Hope you get on OK with it.’

  He shook hands with everyone in the room, and as he walked out he said awkwardly, ‘Look, I’ll be in Pirbright when you get back, and then we all need to get on the piss. Good luck, lads, and keep your heads down. You all need to come back in one piece.’

  He looked into the room Stu Parker shared with Sergeant Woodrow. Parker was watching The Bourne Identity on Woodrow’s PSP. ‘Stu, your face is a bit red. You been sunbathing again?’

  ‘No,’ said Parker, ‘got up a bit late this morning, and the sun was burning my head.’

  Barke laughed. He knew that each night Parker picked up his camp-bed and carried it outside to sleep. He couldn’t stand Woodrow’s incessant snoring.

  They shook hands. ‘Well, cheers then, Stu, good luck for the rest of the tour. I’ll see you back in Pirbright. Look after the lads for me.’

  Outside the block Private Troy McLure, stripped to the waist, in shorts and trainers, was furiously doing press-ups, the sun beating down on his back.

  ‘All right, Troy?’ said Barke.

  McLure stood up, pouring sweat. ‘What’s up, Rich?’

  ‘I’m just going round saying goodbye. Probably see you before I go, but I want to make sure I get everyone.

  ‘Anyway good luck, mate. Hope it all works out for you. Hope you get in the SAS and all that. Don’t know why I’m saying that, I’ll be seeing you in a couple of months back at Pirbright.’

  ‘OK, Rich, see you later. Take care.’

  McLure sprung back on to his hands and toes. As he resumed his press-ups Barke squeezed his right calf hard. McLure turned his face up to Barke with a grin. ‘You know that doesn’t work any more, Rich. You can’t wind me up with that.’ He wi
nked. ‘Or do you just enjoy it? Something you want to tell me?’

  Barke laughed and walked away. When McLure first arrived the other men in the platoon quickly found out that he hated anyone touching him. In the manner of soldiers everywhere they then mercilessly wound him up at every opportunity. This had continued into the tour, but recently, to the annoyance of Barke and his mates, McLure had realized that it was best to ignore them rather than react every time they fooled about.

  3

  There was a resupply of rations, water, ammunition and other stores that afternoon, flown in by Chinook from Bastion, and it had arrived later than planned. The CQMS needed the troops to help shift the vast weight of gear off the HLS into the stores, so the patrol’s departure was delayed.

  As he was waiting to move out, Parker plugged into his iPod and listened to Dire Straits’ ‘Brothers in Arms’, the song he normally switched on before going out on patrol.

  Before they left Zeebrugge, Private Luke Geater was chatting with Troy McLure. Both were from Ipswich. Geater was a school friend of one of McLure’s brothers and had only got to know Troy since joining the Army, but they had become close mates. As Geater left he said, ‘Only three months now, mate. Three months and we’ll be sunning it up in Tenerife. By the pool. With a beer or three.’

  McLure nodded and smiled. They touched fists and Geater said, ‘Stay safe, Aaron, see you later, bruv.’

  Geater, with 6 Platoon, moved out of the base first. It was just before 1630 hours. The sun was bright and the temperature a stifling 40 degrees. With the standard battle load of 36 kilos of gear, the men were pouring sweat before they even left the gates of Zeebrugge.