Attack State Red

by Richard Kemp

  Private Luke Geater was one of the 6 Platoon soldiers who came to help. He placed Thrumble’s body on a stretcher and covered him up. He saw another body being brought down and ran across to help. He was shocked and saddened at seeing Thrumble’s dead body and didn’t really want to see who this was. Without looking at the corpse, he just helped carry the stretcher. Then Geater noticed a tattoo on his right arm, and thought, No, no, it can’t be. He had recognized McLure’s tattoo, but tried desperately to blank the possibility from his mind. It is not Aaron, he told himself. But he knew it was. His eyes filled up, and he almost broke down. He was distraught. But he immediately got a grip of himself. I’ve got a job to do. I’m supposed to be section 2IC, I can’t let the blokes see me crack. Not now of all times. He covered McLure’s body with another field stretcher. Then he called the section to his position and checked they were all present, ready to move.

  Sergeant Woodrow had climbed on to the roof with Lance Corporal Daniel Knowles, checking the place out to make sure there were no more casualties and collecting up weapons and maps. The Taliban were still firing towards them, and the men of 6 Platoon were blasting down a heavy weight of fire to cover the extraction of the casualties.

  Seal-Coon ordered the soldiers to move back, following the stretcher bearers. Woodrow did a head check.

  ‘Where’s Fozzie?’ asked Seal-Coon.

  One of the soldiers said, ‘He’s already been taken back.’

  Another soldier said, ‘He’s dead, I saw him being taken back.’

  Seal-Coon was utterly devastated. He already knew Thrumble and McLure were dead. Now Foster too. And Lee and Parker were in a horrific condition.

  Lee was dazed and confused. He suddenly realized he didn’t have his body armour on. He thought, Wandering around Afghanistan in a pair of boxers is probably not the best idea…

  As 7 Platoon soldiers carried him away, he kept saying, ‘Go back and find my eye…’

  The stretcher party were struggling to manoeuvre him over walls, across ditches and through mouse-holes in the compound walls. It was all too slow. Private Pryke, who had only recently joined the battalion, just grabbed hold of him, took him off the stretcher and dashed more than 200 metres across rough and open ground to place him on the trailer of the company sergeant major’s quad bike.

  But Lee’s immediate problems were still not over. As the quad drew close to the medical RV it swerved to avoid Taliban bullets, went out of control and flipped over, throwing Lee on to the ground. Disorientated, Lee managed to stagger the last few feet to the RV.

  The medic was Captain Pete Hall, a no-nonsense nursing officer who had served as a junior soldier in the Falklands and risen through the ranks. Hall calmly told Lee to sit down, and Lance Corporal Cooledge injected him with morphine. It was then that Lee started to realize the extent of his injuries. His face was badly broken up, with his left eye sunk far behind the socket. There were shrapnel wounds all over his body. He had severe burns, worst on his arms and legs.

  As he drifted into drug-induced semi-consciousness, pulling on a fake Pine Light, Lee was joined by Teddy Ruecker. With other members of the FSG, he had been summoned down from Essex Ridge to help with casualties. As he held Lee’s hand the injured private said, ‘I can’t see. I can’t see. Who’s that? Who’s there?’

  ‘Josh, it’s Teddy.’

  ‘Teddy, don’t leave me, mate…’

  The IRT Chinook was hovering overhead at Zeebrugge, waiting for clearance to land.

  Ruecker said, ‘I’m not leaving you, Josh. You’re going to be all right. You’re going to get through this…’

  Parker was next. Hall took one look at him and waived the rule about not giving morphine to anyone with a chest or head injury. He would be dead unless they operated within the hour. He had a broken right tibia. Both lungs had been punctured and burnt. His pancreas, stomach and kidneys had been torn by the blast. He had lacerations to his left hand, burns all over his body, shrapnel wounds, perforated ear drums and damage to his left eye.

  Both men were carried to a waiting Pinzgauer.

  They were now in severe pain, despite the morphine, but the vehicle was forced to go at snail’s pace. For Parker, even the slightest movement was life-threatening.

  The MERT Chinook commander radioed Borgnis, ‘I have only enough fuel for ten minutes more on station, then I will have to return to Bastion.’

  Borgnis knew that if the helicopter had to depart before it picked up the casualties it would be another hour or more before it could return. They were in the worst kind of Catch-22 situation. If the vehicle carrying Parker moved too fast, he would almost certainly die. If he didn’t get back to Bastion rapidly for an operation he would also die.

  Borgnis radioed the Pinzgauer commander, an RMP corporal, telling him to increase speed and get the casualties to the HLS as soon as possible. The corporal replied, ‘I am under express orders from One Four Alpha not to move any faster.’

  One Four Alpha was Hall’s callsign. ‘Roger out, said Borgnis, utterly confident that Hall would have weighed all the factors and made the best possible decision.

  With the Chinook pilot flying to the absolute limit of his endurance time, the Pinzgauer somehow made it. Ruecker helped carry Lee on to the Chinook, and he realized for the first time that the bomb had killed some of his mates. He saw John Thrumble and Troy McLure, on stretchers on the floor of the helicopter. He took a moment to say goodbye.

  Borgnis ordered the rest of the company back towards Zeebrugge. As the men moved back through his position, he had a word of encouragement for each soldier: ‘Keep your heads up, lads, well done, keep moving now.’

  6 Platoon, leading the way, came under fire as they crossed the open ground beyond Mazdurak. The FSG hammered fire into likely enemy positions, and Browning and Woodrow got their 51mm mortar men to lay down a smokescreen between them and the enemy to conceal movement.

  Seal-Coon moved up and down the line of soldiers as they patrolled through the wadi. ‘Keep spread out now, lads, watch your spacing, cover your arcs.’

  As Lance Corporal James Murphy went by, he squinted at Seal-Coon in the moonlight, still covered in dust and McLure’s blood, and said, ‘Boss, are you OK?’

  ‘Yes thanks, Murph, I’m OK.’

  He wasn’t, and he fought not to break down.

  7

  When he got into Zeebrugge at 2100 hours Seal-Coon went direct to the medical sergeant to confirm who had been evacuated. ‘Parker and Lee both T One. Thrumble and McLure both T Four.’

  ‘What about Foster?’

  ‘Foster hasn’t been evacuated. He wasn’t among the casualties.’

  Seal-Coon felt sick. He raced to the platoon accommodation and pulled Woodrow aside, ‘Fozzie was not CASEVACed.’

  Woodrow went through the accommodation. No Foster. Seal-Coon and Woodrow searched for Borgnis. Seal-Coon said, ‘Sir, we haven’t got Fozzie. We’ve done a head-check, sir, and, he’s not here… He’s not here…’

  Borgnis’s face dropped. He ordered Woodrow to conduct another head-check and an immediate search of the base.

  If Foster is still out there – in enemy territory… All kinds of horrors raced through the company commander’s mind.

  ‘Whatever happens out there, we bring everybody home. Even the dead. We bring everybody back.’ It had become Borgnis’s mantra.

  Woodrow returned within minutes to confirm that Foster was not in the base. Borgnis ordered the company back out to find him. They would have to be static in the heart of Taliban country – on the ground, probably for hours, at night.

  Lieutenant Colonel Carver was allocated the Helmand Reaction Force to reinforce B Company. Based at Camp Bastion on one hour’s notice to move, the HRF platoon was drawn on rotation from units across Task Force Helmand. One of Major Mick Aston’s Brigade Reconnaissance Force platoons was taking its turn. Aston came to Carver’s operations centre to offer assistance as soon as he heard his former company was in trouble. Five hundred metr
es from the operations centre a Chinook was already standing by with rotors turning.

  B Company’s sergeant major, Tim Newton, had arrived at Camp Bastion from Kajaki the previous day, on the first leg of his return to England for R and R. He knew his men needed him with them on the ground at this time of crisis, so he got his kit together and flew back out with the HRF.

  A Nimrod MR2 surveillance aircraft from NATO Regional Command South and a US Predator unmanned surveillance aircraft were put on standby. The battle group operations staff were assembling specialist search and detection equipment and operators to deploy if necessary. Carver also planned additional reinforcements from the battle group, including his Tac HQ, to bolster security if the search for Foster went on into daylight.

  At 2138 hours, just over half an hour after they had got back into Zeebrugge, Sergeant Major Snow’s FSG deployed back out to Essex Ridge to provide overwatch for the search. Close behind, 6 Platoon, travelling in Pinzgauers, drove towards Mazdurak. Seal-Coon and Woodrow, together with Private Perkins, the platoon radio operator who had last seen Foster firing from the ground floor of the compound, accompanied them. Moving troops by vehicle at night in this terrain was a gamble, but Borgnis demanded speed. He had just been told that communications intercepts showed Taliban fighters discussing the discovery of an electronic device in the area the bomb had landed. He now knew the enemy was on the ground, almost certainly close to Private Foster.

  On the peaks 300 metres above Zeebrugge, 5 Platoon scanned the area for enemy activity, and, as 6 Platoon deployed, two Apaches arrived on station, buzzing Mazdurak as a show of strength to scare off the enemy.

  Within half an hour Seal-Coon led a section of 6 Platoon into the compound. The air was thick with the smell of explosives. Sergeant Ben Browning, commander of 6 Platoon, deployed his other two sections into close protection.

  The searchers started to move large lumps of rubble from the demolished building where Foster had been positioned. They then dug carefully through the fine dust with their hands. They were in full moonlit view of the Taliban positions just 350 metres away. Borgnis, taking his turn with the spade, thought, This could all get very nasty. His only consolation was the sound of Apaches overhead.

  Two hours later the HRF arrived and were tasked to assist the exhausted 6 Platoon digging through the rubble. With the HRF came Sergeant Major Newton. Borgnis had never been so pleased to see anyone in his life. Newton said, ‘Hello, sir, you all right?’

  ‘No, Sergeant Major, not really.’

  Newton looked around. It was a grim scene, soldiers digging in the moonlight with the smell of explosives lingering on the air. He moved to the spot where they were working and heard Seal-Coon’s voice. ‘Is that you, George?’ he said.

  Newton had never called an officer by his first name before, and he wasn’t quite sure why he did now.

  Minutes later Lance Corporal Kieran Hunt from 6 Platoon uncovered a green Camelbak clip of the kind Foster had carried. Soon afterwards they uncovered Robert Foster’s lifeless body. His rifle was still slung across his shoulder, and his daysack was on his back.

  B Company’s operations log betrayed none of the emotion felt by the soldiers on the ground: ‘At 0205 hours 1 x T4 casualty FO0423 was recovered from the rubble of compound 248.’

  Everybody went silent. Some braced their backs and brought their heels together, coming spontaneously to attention.

  The soldiers of the HRF prepared to place Private Foster into a body bag. But Company Sergeant Major Newton stepped forward and said quietly, ‘Don’t you dare put one of my men into a body bag. Put him on a stretcher. He came here as a soldier, and he will leave as a soldier.’

  The commanding officer of the US Air Force F15 squadron phoned Zeebrugge later that day. He was extremely emotional and told Borgnis how much he and his squadron regretted what had happened. Borgnis said, ‘You should be aware, sir, that nobody here blames your aircrew. Whatever happened, and whatever the outcome of the inquiries, my men know how much they owe to your pilots. You have always been there for us, and your planes have saved many of my soldiers’ lives. I have spoken to the men in my company this morning, and that is their view too.’

  Expecting recrimination, the American was astonished at what he heard. He told Borgnis that his words would mean a great deal to his pilots. Borgnis said, ‘Please pass them on. And tell them we are looking forward to having a Dude callsign on station next time we’re in trouble on patrol.’

  Snipers: 24–28 August 2007

  1

  A few hours after Private Foster’s body was recovered from the ruined compound in Mazdurak, 25 kilometres south Major Phil Messenger led a C Company patrol out of FOB Inkerman. Messenger had returned from R and R the day after Calder’s Mastiff attack on 16 August, and Calder had handed C Company over to him and flown to Bastion.

  In the oppressive late-morning heat, with Lieutenant Sam Perrin’s 10 Platoon in the lead, the company pushed rapidly across the open field between Inkerman and the start of the Green Zone. They were within sight and range of the base’s sangars, but always crossed this area at speed – no infantryman likes being in the open for any longer than is absolutely necessary.

  Once across they were in a deep, empty irrigation ditch, which provided cover as they moved further into the Green Zone. Messenger spoke on the net: ‘All stations this is Zero Alpha. Be aware that so far there has been no enemy radio chatter. It is just possible we have got out of Inkerman without being picked up by them. Ensure you move with the greatest possible stealth. We’ll see how far we can get without them IDing us.’

  It had never happened before. By this point on every other patrol, the Taliban radios would have come alive with excited chatter, as fighters warned each other of the movement of British troops. Messenger considered two possible options. For some reason the enemy might have slipped up and let their guard drop. Or they might have twigged to the intercepts and wanted to increase the chances of surprise if they had an ambush ready for C Company. A sniper pair, Lance Corporal Tom Mann and Private Dan Gent, were moving with 10 Platoon. Messenger usually deployed the snipers with whichever platoon was leading the company, and, as the platoons switched roles, he would shift them accordingly. Conventionally one member of a sniper pair would be equipped with a sniper rifle and the other with an automatic weapon to provide back-up. But as the snipers were working within the protection provided by the company, both had sniper rifles – Mann carried a .338 long-range rifle and Gent the smaller and less powerful 7.62mm L96.

  The previous afternoon, Mann had spent several hours preparing his equipment. Every few weeks, he carried out the time-consuming task of redoing the camouflage to make his kit blend in. Every sniper had his own methods and ideas to give himself that extra edge over the enemy that could make all the difference. Gent had filled a bucket with mud and water and carefully mixed the two into a gritty, paint-like slurry. He had previously tried to acquire desert vehicle paint, but was told none was available – ‘dues out’ in the time-honoured quartermasters’ parlance, in other words: ‘you’re not getting any’. He reckoned his own technique worked better anyway, blending in more effectively than the artificial stuff. He then taped up his rifle, spotting scope and laser range finder with sleeping bag repair tape that he had scrounged when the CQMS wasn’t looking. The tape was made of a green fabric, just what he needed to absorb his camouflage mix. With his hands, he then carefully rubbed the slurry into the tape, making sure it didn’t get into any of the apertures that could either jam his weapon or obscure his vision. It dried almost immediately under the baking sun, and he looked at it with satisfaction – exactly the same shade as the dirt on the ground and the walls of the compounds. From his webbing he took a small green plastic box, the size of a thick credit card. This was the issued camouflage cream – dark brown, light brown and green – designed for the face and arms, but rarely used in Afghanistan. He streaked the cream over the top of the now dried dirt and water slurry, creating a s
eries of jagged lines and blotches to break up the shape of the rifle and the other equipment.

  Mann was the consummate sniper. He took huge pride in what he did and went to enormous lengths to be the best that he could be. He had wanted to do this since watching the Tom Berenger film Sniper as a little boy. Always a good shot, he had been in the regional shooting team when he was an Army Cadet. During his basic training at Catterick, Royal Anglian soldiers had visited to show the recruits the different weapon systems they would use when they got to the battalion. All Mann wanted to do was get his hands on the sniper rifle.

  When he got to the battalion in 2003 and was posted to B Company, his first question was: ‘When can I do a sniper course?’ His commanders had other ideas and were keen for him to spend as much time as possible as a Saxon vehicle driver. Over the next three years he made himself a nuisance to his platoon commander, platoon sergeant and company sergeant major, constantly belly-aching about getting on to a sniper course.

  Eventually they’d had enough, and he was put on a course at the beginning of 2006, after returning from Iraq. Students with him on the course at Pirbright and Brecon included Alex Hawkins, Oliver Bailey, Dean Bailey and Teddy Ruecker. It was demanding, both physically and mentally, but Mann loved every minute of it. He worked as hard as he could and came top. He considered the greatest achievement of his life to that point was being handed the sniper badge, something he had been desperate to gain for so long.

  2

  Gent was happy to be patrolling with 10 Platoon. He knew and respected Sergeant Armon, who had himself been a battalion sniper. Armon understood how to get the best use out of a sniper pair and was a good laugh with it. And he thought Perrin, the platoon commander, was an outstanding officer. He knew exactly what he was doing, never panicked whatever was going on, kept a good grip on his men, but was also close to them and approachable.